


Let's Wait Awhile

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliffhangers, Companion Stiles Stilinski, Courting Rituals, Full Shift Werewolves, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Like ... in a row, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Older Stiles Stilinski, Pack Dynamics, Post-Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Therapy, Torture, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Stiles has been a companion for traumatized wolves for years now. When everyone tells him Peter Hale is beyond saving, he doesn't listen. He doesn't believe there are wolves that are beyond saving. He thinks you only need a lot of patience - something, most people can't muster anymore nowadays. Stiles enters Peter's room and brings two rare things with him: Endless patience and his heart.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Peter Hale, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 225
Kudos: 1003





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So ... I had an idea (a plotwolf?) and started to write this as a drabble or short story. But now, it seems like something that wants to be explored further, so it seems like it is going to be a multi-chapter fic. But I have no idea where it is going. However, there is certainly much more backstory going to be added. Especially to Stiles' past and his work at the center. I hope you'll enjoy reading! :)

Everyone tells Stiles Peter Hale is beyond saving. 

Stiles doesn’t listen. He never pays attention to _everyone_. The only thing he’s listening to, are his own instincts. 

He has been a companion for traumatized wolves for years now. He has seen wolves so feral, they threw themselves against the walls and tore into their own flesh. He has seen wolves so depressed, they let themselves starve until their ribs were too pronounced and only stared blankly at the provided food. He has seen a lot. And if there is one thing he has learnt over the years, it is that there is no such thing as a wolf being beyond saving.   
  


You just have to be patient with them.  
  


But Stiles knows too well that nowadays, it is incredibly hard for people to be patient. Everything has to happen fast. No one has time anymore. So Stiles isn’t really surprised, when the others at the werewolf rehabilitation center take one look at the new broken wolf in the closed ward and shake their heads, mumbling about how sometimes, euthanasia should still be allowed, because this is just “cruel”. It is cruel, they say, to let a wolf, whose pack bonds have just snapped one by one in the most painful way, vegetate alone in a soundproof room, only because people think everyone can and should be saved. This wolf, they say, is too broken. He is a danger to himself and others. He will never be able to live a normal life again. Not after _this,_ they say. And they turn away. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything to that. He barely talks to people nowadays. They have disappointed and abandoned him far too often. His own family. His supposed friends. Everyone. He mostly talks to the broken wolves now. They listen. At least, they _listen_. The wolves listen and they have taught him so much. They have taught him to be calm, patient, attentive. They have taught him so much more than any human ever did. They saved him. More than one time. And Stiles never turns his back on one of them.

He looks at the fully shifted emaciated werewolf behind the glass. Looks at the still bandaged paws and the places where whole patches of grey fur are missing, revealing tight scarred skin. He looks at how the wolf lays on his side, his open yellow eyes staring blankly into the void. There is a nest of fuzzy blankets and pillows in one corner of the room, but the wolf lays far away from them on the bare tiles. He didn’t touch the water or food in front of him. Stiles is quite sure he won’t pay attention to it for a long while. Right now, he thinks while looking into the hazy eyes that were full of life not that long ago, the wolf only thinks about what he has lost in the flames.

  
  
The story is gruesome. It shocked the whole town. 

The Hales have been a huge family and were respected by most people in the town. Of course, there were the usual occasional snide whispers of ‘monsters’, 'freaks' or ‘abominations’, but since the new treaties and rules concerning werewolves and their territories have finally been established, the Hales were mostly left alone and minded their own business. On the rare occasion he went to the bakery early enough, Stiles has seen Peter bringing the kids to school with his fancy car. He has seen him adjusting the schoolbag of one of his smaller nieces, has seen him giving goodbye kisses and has seen him staring after the kids with a certain fondness in his bright blue eyes. Stiles tried to be subtle - The man was damn hot in his tailored lawyer suit, how was he supposed to not try to steal a glimpse of that arse? - but sometimes, he caught himself staring too much and looked away in embarrassment, sometimes feeling the tickle of Peter’s gaze on his back and sensing his own face burning.  
  


Now, he is staring at Peter again, but everything has changed. Everything.

  
The Hales - the oldest and biggest werewolf pack around - are dead. Only two of them survived the fire consuming their house. Everyone knows perfectly fine that it was a hate crime. Someone decided that the Hales didn’t deserve to live. Just because they happened to be werewolves. Just because they sometimes turned into actual wolves and chased after some rabbits or howled at the full moon together. Goddamn. What a fucked up world. 

After Peter was brought to the rehabilitation center, Stiles briefly met one of the other survivors. One of Peter’s older nephews. His cat-like greenish eyes were heavy and red-rimmed. He looked too old and pained for his age. He is only four years younger than Stiles. Eighteen. He introduced himself as Derek Hale. Derek wasn’t in the house when it burned. But he was the one finding his uncle in the forest not far away from the fire, licking at his burned paws and whining in unbearable pain, not able to get up on his own.

“Can you help him?” Derek asked Stiles anxiously, not able to look away from the sedated wolf laying on a heap of blankets, getting fluids and painkillers through an IV line. 

“I will try,” Stiles said. “But it is going to take a lot of time,” he added truthfully. Some Weres stay in their wolf form for years after the trauma inducing incident. Stiles thinks the current "record" is at ten. The woman had to learn how to live as a human again. It was a slow process, full of setbacks, but now, she is working as an ambassador for Supernaturals, so there’s that. 

Derek nodded curtly. “Thank you,” he said softly, throwing a last sad glance at his uncle and leaving with his shoulders hanging low. He was walking away like an old man. An Alpha now. All of a sudden. Alpha without anyone to teach him what to do with the spark. An Alpha without a proper pack and a pack house. An Alpha with only a little sister and his uncle in his wolf form left. Stiles looked after him and the sympathy was making his chest clench. 

Peter didn’t shift back to human in the next few days. Stiles wasn’t surprised about that. The wolf has seen his family burning in front of his eyes. His sister Talia, all the children, the older Weres as well as his human brother who had also been a lawyer. He had to hear them choking on smoke and screaming in pain as the fire started to lick at those who didn’t pass out in time. The report later said that Peter couldn’t have been inside the house when it started burning because the mountain ash barriers would have prevented him from escaping, and that is the most cruel detail for Stiles personally, because it means Peter ran in. He ran right into the inferno, trying to save his trapped family. 

He tried to imagine Peter throwing himself against the mountain ash again and again, until the fire reached for him as well. Tried to imagine how he screamed the names of his nephews and nieces. Tried to imagine how he had to give up eventually, how the wolf took over and forced him to leave the house before he could die with the others. The thoughts and mental images were enough to give him a vivid nightmare. 

It was a tragedy and everyone knew about it. Soon after the fire, People started to lay down flowers at the Hales’ family grave. The police started to investigate without much success. The arsonists clearly knew what they were doing. Maybe, they are doing it again somewhere else now. People who kill out of hate never seem to be able to stop.

The Hale house is a charred black carcass in the middle of the woods now. After some time, people started to visit it for the occasional scary shiver over their backs that hit them when they realized that the place is full of screaming ghosts, almost palpable in the air and in the burned smell lingering around the house.  
  


Stiles didn’t start his companion work immediately. He never does. There is lots of necessary groundwork. First he only observed and waited, assessing the wolf’s state of mind. Depressed, he decided. Severely depressed and feral, but not violent. The wolf hasn’t lashed out even once. He has never tried to escape or hurt anyone who tended to his wounds. He knows that could change. He has seen wolves who were impassive for months and suddenly tried to grab everything that came near their fangs.  
  
Stiles has already worked with wolves who attacked him. It was stressful, because he had to watch his back with them. Had to be ready to run or grab his tranquilizer gun. So far, he has been attacked like ten times. There is a silver moon-shaped scar on his right elbow. It is only one reminder of these attacks. Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows what Weres are capable of. He always pays attention to everything happening when he’s with them. He pays them the amount of respect they deserve.

Today is the first time Stiles wants to go in. 

Over the last days, he has been lingering outside the room longer than usually, making sure Peter caught a glimpse of him. He knows there is a shirt with his scent between the blankets in the room. Before he enters, he makes sure he has the tranquilizer gun and it is loaded. He also makes sure he has nothing on him that a wolf could grab and use to pull at him. He can’t afford being careless. It did cost other companions a leg or hand or even their life. The latter always causes loud angry screams in the public, demanding more rules and more sentences for "misbehaving Weres". The worst are the people who want to abolish the "ridiculous" rehabilitation centers all at once and vote for an instant death penalty. Like a wolfsbane bullet in the head. Disgusting.

Stiles doesn't want to be responsible for new discussions, which usually treat wolves like they are things, not living beings. Weres really already have enough problems. The prove for that is laying right in front of him.

When Stiles is sure, he has done everything he can to prevent accidents, he uses his card to let himself into the room. He breathes deeply and evenly, trying to appear as calm and unthreatening as possible, while he steps in and closes the door behind him. It is always a thrilling moment, to willingly enter a room containing a huge wolf able to effortlessly crush bones and throw a grown up person against the other wall. 

Peter barely stirs when Stiles enters. One of his ears twitches and his snout crinkles briefly. But other than that, he remains motionless, laying on his unhurt side like usually. His yellow eyes are distant.

Stiles moves unhurriedly. He sits down cross-legged in the middle of the room with a book like he always does. He won’t just stare at the wolf and do nothing. That would only unnerve both of them. He opens the book and starts to read.   
  


Time passes.   
  


It is silent in the room. Because of the soundproofing, the steps and words of the people walking past outside are not audible in here. The only noises are Stiles’ even breaths, the softly turning pages and the wolf’s slightly heavier but also even breaths. When Stiles has read a whole chapter, he closes the book and lays it between his feet. He looks up at Peter and takes care to not look directly into the wolf’s eyes. “I will be back tomorrow,” he says quietly. There is no need to yell. The wolf will understand even a whisper. “Same time.”  
  
He looks for a reaction in vain. The wolf has already closed his eyes and looks like he dozes off in seconds.

Stiles isn’t disappointed about the lack of interaction. It is okay. This was only the first encounter. Nothing more than a careful mutual scanning. It is nice that the wolf feels safe enough to take a nap in Stiles' presence. Next time, he is going to read the words in his book out loud, to let the wolf get used to the sound of Stiles' voice.

He gets up, puts the book under his arm and walks back to the door. Before he lets himself out, he can hear a quiet whimper that changes into a low whining. Stiles looks back over his shoulder and sees the wolf twitching restlessly in his sleep. Nightmare, he thinks, feeling a sudden rush of sympathy. “He’s having constant nightmares,” Thomas, one of the nurses who take care of Peter’s injuries, told Stiles not that long ago. “Sometimes, he’s clawing at his own skin and we have to sedate him before he hurts himself too badly.”  
  
It is no surprise, of course. After what Peter has been through, nightmares and flashbacks are to be expected. Still, Stiles feels his throat tightening. Involuntarily, he imagines the attractive man who brought all the kids to school and looked after them until they disappeared in the building. He imagines that man and compares him to this shadow of a wolf. It is painful. 

Stiles forces himself to turn away and disconnect from the pitiful noises. He can’t comfort Peter yet. It is way too early for that. If he dared to touch a sleeping wolf he barely knows, he would probably end up with deathly fangs around his neck.  
  
He leaves.

  
When he drives his old rattling jeep home a little while later, Stiles has a feeling that patience alone will not be enough here. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles’ therapist has a huge fish tank in her office. He likes to look at it while talking. It is better - easier - than looking at Ms. Morrell. It is almost hypnotizing to watch the colorful tropical fish floating between the gently swaying pink and lilac sea anemones. There is a new one, Stiles notices. It is big. Red and white stripes, long spikes on the back. Lydia could have told him how it is called. He is sure. 

“How are you sleeping, Stiles?” Ms. Morrell asks him and he flinches a little. Sometimes, it is easy to forget he is not alone in the room. 

Stiles shrugs. “It has been better. But it also has been worse.” There has been a time when it felt like he didn’t sleep at all. When he was tossing and turning for hours, growing more desperate with every passing minute. Now, he usually manages to fall asleep within half an hour and makes it through at least five solid hours. That is definitely progress. There are still nightmares and hours in which his brain just won’t shut up, but at least, he doesn’t contanstanly feel like he was hit by a bunch of bricks in the morning.  
  
Ms. Morrell makes a note on her pad. Stiles looks back at the fish. The new one chases a smaller one away. Maybe he is a bully. Sure. Bullies everywhere. Stiles can feel a scowl pulling at his lips. He has his very own experiences with bullies. The memories of being insulted, kicked around or having his stuff distributed on the floor of the hallway are old, but still fresh enough to taste bitter. 

“And you are sticking to your diet?” his therapist asks next, interrupting the path his thoughts are trying to take. 

Stiles swallows. He starts to feel a bit guilty. Food is still … Well. Food. Often, he just doesn’t have the energy or the strength of will to prepare a proper meal. It is so much easier to stick to take away or fries. His eating habits are still like a roller coaster. On some days, he doesn’t want to even look at food. On other days, he opens the door of the fridge and just pours whatever he can find into his mouth. A leftover habit from the mess that was his childhood. “Mostly,” he says carefully. “I eat at least twice a day.” 

Ms. Morrell frowns slightly. Stiles knows he’s being too silent and vague today. It must be frustrating. But he doesn’t feel like talking. His thoughts are too jumbled. He just wants to go home and lose himself in a video game. Maybe, his therapist senses that. Because she finishes their session a bit earlier. 

Her last question is if he has talked to someone lately. Stiles shrugs. “Not really.” He doesn’t want to be a burden. He is the only one who stayed behind in this town after all. Everyone he knows left for college. 

“Social interaction is important, Stiles,” Ms. Morrell tells him. “It can help to not be alone with all the thoughts. To have someone to share them with …” 

“I have the wolves,” Stiles says firmly and tears his gaze from the fish tank while getting up slowly. “I am not alone.” 

* * *

When Stiles arrives at his small flat, a ball of white fur comes running and jumps up his legs. He smiles and bends down to scratch his Chihuahua Godzilla behind his ears. “Hey buddy, bet you’re hungry,” he murmurs. Godzilla barks in agreement and makes little unhappy noises when he sniffs at Stiles’ shoes. “I know, I know,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “I smell like wolf again. Well, you have the whole evening to change that, buddy.”

After feeding his dog Stiles flops on the couch, wraps himself into two fuzzy blankets and puts Godzilla on his lap, stroking his fur. The dog starts the constant rumbling that almost sounds like a purr and always makes Stiles wonder if he maybe was raised by some street cats. 

He found Godzilla in the park, half starved and trembling from the cold, one of his legs broken and one of his eyes milky white. Stiles brought the featherlight dog to a vet and since no one seemed to miss the tiny Chihuahua, Stiles kept him. There was no way he would leave the little bundle of shaking white fur in one of these horrendous animal shelters. 

Stiles was barely able to take care of himself on bad days, but he still guessed he could take care of a dog so small he has to take care to not step on him.  
  
Stiles goes through his many video games and goes for an ego shooter. He needs some stress relief right now.

After therapy, he usually feels tense and exhausted at the same time. Sometimes, he wonders why he even still goes there. But then he remembers it actually helped. He was way worse when he started to see Ms. Morrell like two years ago. He doesn’t like to remember how worse exactly. 

Stiles doesn’t like to remember the days on which grey clouds were floating above his head constantly or panic attacks and anxiety came in waves, violent and relentless. He remembers breaking down and sobbing in front of a doctor, saying how he doesn’t understand what is wrong with him. 

He understood it later, when he slowly set the pieces together with the help of his therapist. Unprocessed childhood trauma, the deaths of his parents, being passed on from foster family to foster family, the bullying at school, the problems focusing in class, the feeling of never really belonging, the constant overwhelming feeling something terrible would happen … 

All that combined gave him a great dose of anxiety and pulled him right down into the pit of a heavy depression. On some days, the self-loathing was barely standable. A constant string of _useless, worthless, pathetic._ One of the few things grounding him back then and until now is his work with the wolves. He feels _there_ when he is with them, feels present and solid. Talking to them is so much easier than talking to humans. Wolves don’t make strange facial expressions that make you wonder if you said something wrong or strange. They don’t stare into your eyes or raise their brows or look away, clearly losing interest. They don’t sigh when you talk for too long about anything, or try to interrupt you to get some words about themselves in too. 

He certainly feels more alone when he talks to people than when he talks to the wolves. 

Stiles picks up the controller and notices with surprise, that he feels a bit of an appetite. He will get himself a snack later. Maybe something healthy. He thinks he has some bananas and nuts somewhere. But he doesn’t want to stand up just now, with Godzilla softly snoring and drooling on the blanket. Stiles starts the game and allows himself to get lost in it for a while. 

* * *

Derek Hale drinks his coffee with a ridiculous amount of sugar. 

But then, Stiles thinks while watching the guy pouring the sugar into the dark liquid until it becomes a soft light brown, Derek doesn’t have to worry about doing any damage to his body. The werewolf genes will burn anything harmful away in a second. It is kind of enviable. 

Derek seemed surprised when Stiles asked him for a meeting in the center’s cafeteria, but he quickly agreed. 

Stiles talks to family members as much as he can when they are available. Because he knows it helps them to share their thoughts and fears. And because it helps himself to understand a wolf better. Indirectly, he gets a bit closer to the human side he is supposed to coax out. 

“How was Peter before the fire?” he asks, digging his fork into the huge piece of lemon cake on his plate. 

Derek sips his sweet coffee and smiles absently when he remembers. “A pain in the ass. Sometimes I asked myself if he invented sarcasm and arrogance. To be honest, he always felt more like a brother to me than an uncle, because there weren’t so many years between us. Peter came late. My mother’s parents were immensely surprised about another child. He kept a close eye on me because that’s what his task was.” He hesitates. “I don’t know how much you know about wolf packs …” 

Stiles smiles faintly. “I have so many books about werewolf packs I needed a whole bookcase for them. Same goes for pack bonds and hierarchies. I am sure there is a lot more to learn, but my knowledge should be enough to understand the basics.” 

Derek nods curtly. He looks relieved he doesn’t have to explain every little detail. “Good. Well, like I said, Peter was keeping an eye on me, sometimes it was downright annoying. It was difficult to do anything without catching his attention.” He looks distant for a moment, as he seems to remember, his expression going from slightly amused to guilty suddenly. “I sometimes told Peter to piss off and leave me alone when I felt like he was being too overprotective. Now, I just want him back. He was always there for me. When I needed him, when anyone in the pack needed him, he was always there. He always had our back.” He swallows heavily and looks down at his untouched piece of cake. 

Stiles feels the emotion in the air between them. Thick and almost palpable. “Even if he changes back to human, he won’t be the same,” he says carefully after some moments of silence because Derek needs to hear it. “Trauma changes people.” 

“I know,” Derek murmurs quietly. 

“Is there anything he likes?” Stiles changes the subject. 

Derek thinks for a moment. He smiles slightly and shrugs, when he eventually says, “The moon. Somehow, that is the first thing that comes to my mind. He has always loved to be outside as long as possible when it was a clear night, often in full shift.” Derek looks sad again, like he is losing himself in some long gone memories and they torture him. 

Stiles stirs his green tea and lets the silence settle in, because sometimes, you just need to feel the memories and realize they are just that. The past is never going to come back.

* * *

When Stiles prepares to visit Peter, he stumbles over Thomas in the common area. The nurse looks grim and annoyed, cutting meat into pieces with short sharp movements that make Stiles flinch. 

“What’s up?” Stiles asks carefully. 

Thomas makes a rumbling noise. “Some assholes were protesting in front of the building again today. They had their stupid signs with them. You know, the usual crap. _Stop treating monsters with kid gloves_ , _death to the killers_ , _save humanity now_ … Bla bla.” He slams his knife into a bone piece and snorts. 

Stiles sighs and checks his tranquilizer gun. “Yeah, well. There will always be such people. Nothing new.” 

“Yes, but sometimes, I am honestly scared they will try to burn the center down or something. There are idiots and there are haters who are dangerous because they are not idiots, you know what I mean?” Thomas asks, his frown deepening. 

Stiles nods. He knows there were attempts in the past. Someone gained access once and tried to kill some wolves with wolfsbane gas, but they were stopped. There are security cameras and such things here after all. 

“Are you going to see Peter Hale?” Thomas asks, changing the subject. 

“Yes,” Stiles says.

Thomas sighs. “It would be really great if you get through to him. If he doesn’t eat and drink on his own soon, we’ll have to feed him through a tube. You know how much I hate that. It’s a load of extra stress for everyone.” 

“I am doing my best but I can’t do magic,” Stiles murmurs. Unfortunately. “His nephew said he loves the moon. Maybe he would get a bit more lively if he was allowed to see it.” 

“Well, what do you want to do? Put him on a leash and walk him?” Thomas arches a brow. “Good luck with that.” 

Stiles frowns. “You know, if there weren’t so many rules, then yes, I would just take a walk with him. If it helped.” 

Thomas' face falls a bit. He points his bloodied knife at Stiles and glares. “Well, but there _are_ rules. And you can’t just take him out for a little walk through the forest, Stiles, don’t you dare. You know the risks. It won’t help anyone. Neither you nor the wolves. Imagine something happens, you know who will be held accountable. You know who will suffer. These people I mentioned, they are like vultures. They are just waiting for an incident. For a bitten off leg or arm. Or, God forbid, for someone killed by a Were. They are hungry for it, Stiles.” 

“I know, I know. I was just thinking out loud. I won’t let him out,” Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“We can help them best like this,” Thomas says, sounding very convinced. “By keeping them safe and preventing them from hurting someone or themselves.” 

“Yeah. And by locking them in a cage, treating them like animals,” Stiles mutters, scowling. 

Thomas throws him an exasperated glance. “Well, look into the room and you see an animal, right? They are half and half, Stiles. That’s why you have to hurry and get to the human inside him. A human we can talk to.” 

You can talk to a wolf just fine, Stiles wants to say, but he keeps the thought to himself. He is already exhausted from the short conversation. He just nods and leaves the common area, heading for the closed ward.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t read today. He forgot his book. Instead, he talks to Peter about everything and nothing. The wolf lies on his side and stares into a corner of the room like usually. 

“Do you miss the moon?” Stiles eventually asks. “I talked to Derek today, you know. And he mentioned you love the moon. He also mentioned he wants you back.” 

He doesn’t even expect a reaction, so it utterly surprises him, when the wolf shifts and tilts his head to look at Stiles, his eyes a bit more alert than before. 

Oh wow. Stiles swallows. He kind of wishes he could show this to Thomas. The wolf isn’t separated from the human after all. “The moon and your nephew. You could get them back, you know? They are still there. I know you lost an awful lot, but you still have family left,” he continues. 

_Family_.  
  
Stiles can’t help but feeling a pinch of pain at only the word. It reminds him of his very own losses.

His mom died when he was ten. She died slowly. Gradually. It was like watching a flower withering in slow motion. She had Frontotemporal Dementia. It is one of Stiles’ worst fears he could get it too. His mother tried to kill him once. With a pillow. It was ridiculously soft. She smothered him with it and called him the devil, until Stiles’ Dad pulled her away. 

Not much later, his mother was admitted to the hospital and stayed there. 

Stiles quickly learned to hate the hospital. He hated the smell of disinfectant and simple chicken broth that seemed to float through the white hallways constantly. He hated the bright neon lights that made his mother’s skin look like frail paper, almost transparent. He hated the slow drip drip of the IV, the bubbling of the oxygen and the beeping of the heart monitor. The noises followed him into his sleep, into his dreams.  
  
Four years later, he entered the hospital again and it was like a flashback. His Dad got shot in the chest. 

Stiles knew the police officer knocking at their door. Deputy Parrish. He had a cute dog and sometimes brought it to the station when Stiles was there too, so they could play together. He was nice. It took Stiles one look into Parrish’s face to know why he was there. He had seen such a scene in the Tv shows he was secretly watching when his Dad passed out over a bottle because he could barely deal with the death of his wife. 

The first thing Stiles felt was a cold numbness. It didn’t leave him for a whole day. 

He looked at his Dad in the hospital bed, looked at his still face behind the oxygen mask and knew this was going to be another goodbye. He took his Dad’s hand just like he had taken his mother’s years ago and sat down. Noah Stilinski didn’t wake up again. 

That night, when Stiles tried to fall asleep, he realized he got the jackass when it comes to luck. 

His first foster family was rich. Crazy rich. They didn’t allow Stiles to touch anything in the house. They didn’t want noise, or laughter or anything. Stiles finally broke an antic vase on purpose. To hear the bang and see the colorful shards flying was spectacular. There was a lot of screaming and crying. Many accusing glances too. They brought him back after a week. Like he was a book they borrowed. Stiles didn’t even remember their names later. 

His second foster family was creepy. They had all kinds of strange rituals and tried to watch Stiles’ every step. They wanted to know about everything and everyone. It felt like prison. He finally sneaked out of a window and ran away. The police brought him back to the orphanage. 

The third attempt was the last one. It was the first time Stiles considered himself lucky. Because when he shook Melissa McCall’s hand, she gave him a sincere smile and it was warm. So warm. He immediately liked her. He also liked her son, Scott. Their house was a bit messy and they had Burger-Mondays. Perfect. When he fell into his new bed in his new room, Stiles felt like he could be happy here. 

Because of Scott, Stiles met Alan Deaton. And Alan Deaton introduced him to the wolves. 

Deaton worked as a vet in the local animal clinic and Scott was working there part time, mostly, because he wanted to be a vet too sometime. Stiles was immediately on board when Scott asked him if he wanted to see the clinic. Since Deaton was a vet for both the Ordinary and the Supernatural, there was a lot to discover at the clinic. But what really got Stiles’ attention, was a giant wolf chilling in the front yard, eyes closed and face raised towards the sun. 

Stiles’ breath hitched. “Is that a Were?” he asked, not able to avert his eyes from the wolf. 

“Yes,” Deaton nodded. “He broke his leg and I set the bone so everything is going to grow together properly. They heal faster in their wolf form.” 

“Awesome,” Stiles breathed. He had never seen a werewolf up close before. They were rare. Almost hunted to extinction, at least in this part of the States. There were several groups fighting for werewolf rights, but it was hard to battle century old prejudices and deep, institutionalized fears. 

Stiles started to help out at the animal clinic too. He loved to work with the animals. They always listened and never interrupted, never got bored or looked at him funnily when he couldn’t stop rambling. They gave all the love you gave them right back. 

One day, Deaton had another werewolf on his table, but it was unconscious and looked ill. “Wolfsbane,” Deaton mumbled and his eyes narrowed in anger. “Illegal hunting again, I guess.” 

Stiles watched anxiously as the vet tried to fight the poison inside the wolf’s blood with more poison. When the werewolf started to make quiet pained noises but didn’t wake up, Stiles carefully ran his fingers through the fur, startled when he sensed how the wolf trembled. An hour passed until Deaton sighed heavily and shook his head. Stiles swallowed around a thick lump in his throat when he felt the wolf taking the last few breaths. 

“They will be punished, right?” Stiles asked, clenching his hands into fists. “Whoever did this, they will be punished?” 

Deaton looked at him sadly. “You’ll have to find someone who cares enough about werewolves first. Someone who would bother to run an investigation. The people who do this, they know what they are doing. There are enough people from old hunter families who refuse to stop doing what they have been doing for centuries. They still see hunting the Supernatural as their birthright, their task. For them, this is how they save people. They think they are the last defenders of humanity.” 

Stiles could barely stand the unfairness of this. His incredulous rage was the first spark for the decision to do something. He started to learn. He bombarded Deaton with questions whenever he could and read every book he could get into his hands. There was a long time in which he thought he would just stay at the animal clinic and occasionally help injured werewolves, but that didn’t seem like enough. And then he saw the ad of the rehabilitation center. 

He tells Peter everything. Because why not. It hurts a lot, but it is better to get it out. He knows that by now. Learned it from several painful therapy sessions. 

By the time he is done, the wolf has put his head on his bandaged paws and closed his eyes, clearly preparing for a nap. 

Stiles sighs and rubs at his eyes, feeling the traitorous wetness there. “Losing someone so close to you hurts like hell,” he murmurs. “Not that I want to compare our situations. I don’t even want to imagine what it’s been like to be there in that basement. But … I know the feeling of losing family, and it really knocks you down, but you gotta get back up again sometime, because there are good things. Nice things. And people who need you. That’s something we should remember.” He gets up slowly and mumbles a goodbye, feeling very tired too suddenly. This visit has drained him. When he closes the door however, he sees Peter eyeing the water and he hopes while walking away that the wolf will at least start to provide himself with the essential things one needs to survive.

* * *

When Stiles leaves the center, he notices someone he doesn’t know staring at the building thoughtfully. A woman, blonde hair falling over her shoulders in waves and light brown eyes sparkling almost cat-like. 

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks her reluctantly. 

The woman looks at him and smiles. Stiles instinctively doesn’t like the smile. It looks … predatory. And it doesn't reach her eyes. “Are you really housing werewolves inside there?” She asks him, her curiosity sounding like mockery.

Stiles frowns. “Yeah. It’s a rehabilitation center for traumatized and feral werewolves.” 

“Huh,” the woman makes. She looks back to the building, her smile not fading. “Fascinating.” 

Stiles awkwardly shifts his weight. “Good evening,” he mutters into the silence, not waiting for an answer. This woman creeps him out. There is something about her that just doesn’t feel right. He turns and walks away, shivering because he is suddenly sure, her sharp eyes are following him. 

It starts to rain and Stiles grimaces, jogging the short way to the bus. He intends to hurry home, wrap himself in his blankets with Godzilla and forget the world for a long moment.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles likes when his days fall into a rhythm. He has had enough chaos in his life. He doesn’t need more of it. Routine makes him feel safe.

He gets up in the morning and takes care to feed Godzilla and then himself. On Mondays and Fridays he goes to see his therapist. He tries to go running every third day and mostly manages to do so, although he will never really like the burning sensation in his lungs and the way his legs start to ache after a certain distance. Every second day he visits Peter. 

In the evenings, Stiles wraps himself in some blankets - his little old flat always seems to be cold, no matter the season - and sits in front of his laptop with a cup of tea and Godzilla on his lap. He picks apart some werewolf-hating idiots in social media until they either run out of arguments and go silent or until Stiles grows tired with how stupid they are and just blocks them. Afterwards, he spends some time researching. Deaton recently sent him a flyer of a major he thought Stiles would be interested in. Cognitive behavior therapy for the Supernatural. Stiles is more than just interested. He is intrigued.

Stiles knows he wouldn’t have difficulties getting into the major. Deaton would recommend him and besides, he has the necessary conditions. There aren’t that many. The field is still young and there aren’t a lot of therapists for Supernaturals. Not even at the rehabilitation center, where they would be most needed. Someone with a proper education would certainly be appreciated, Stiles thinks. 

The more he reads about the major and the classes he would be taking, the more excited he gets about it. He still has a lot of time until he would have to apply for it, so he can still think of the pros and cons. 

Stiles reads until he grows too tired and the letters blur in front of his eyes. He drags himself into bed and takes his sleeping pills. Sometimes, he still tosses and turns because his thoughts just won’t shut up. They race and mingle, forming a labyrinth in which when one thought ends, the other one begins. When he starts to feel the first hint of sleepy frustration, Sitles starts to count from 1 to 100 or repeat lyrics of familiar songs in his head. It’s something his therapist suggested, and it works better than Stiles would have thought. At least some nights.  
  
He finally falls asleep, and sometimes he sleeps mercifully blank - just a blink of darkness and waking up refreshed. These nights increase. There are still nightmare nights in which he soaks the sheets with sweat and the pillow with tears, but they get rarer. Thankfully.  
  
That is his routine for quite a while. 

Sometimes, Stiles breaks it to visit Melissa McCall.

Melissa is one of the rare people Stiles feels comfortable with. Since the day they met, she has been a warm comforting presence. She can be incredibly stern as well, but she is never cruel or mean. Altough he lived with her and Scott for years, Stiles has never called her Mum. Melissa told him he doesn’t have to. She didn't want to replace his mother. Didn't want to take the place Stiles has in his heart for her. It didn’t influence their relationship at all. Stiles is still grateful for that.

Melissa is always happy when he shows up. Stiles knows she misses Scott terribly and feels a bit lonely. He once suggested she should date someone, but she dismissed this idea rather violently. Stiles wasn’t that surprised about it. She never talked much about Scott’s father, but when she did, her eyes got a certain fierceness and her voice carried the echo of anger mixed with sad disappointment. 

While Melissa makes tea and arranges biscuits on a plate, Stiles tells her a bit about Peter and her eyes fill with sympathy. 

“I heard about the fire. It was all over the news,” Melissa says, putting the biscuits in front of Sitles and sitting on the couch. “It is a shame. The Hales were decent people. Friendly and helpful. They didn’t deserve this tragedy.” 

Melissa is on the side of the people who say as long as werewolves and other Supernaturals don’t harm anyone, there is no reason to go after them. She has passed this opinion on to Scott. 

When Stiles carefully sips the hot tea, Melissa looks at him attentively. “How are you, Stiles?” 

He shrugs and hums. “I’m fine.” 

Melissa nods. “You look well rested.” She smiles and adds, “You know you always have a home here, Stiles.” 

Stiles swallows and puts his hands around the mug to warm them. “I do know. But … I don’t want to be a burden.”  
  
“You would never be a burden to me, honey,” Melissa says warmly. But there is understanding in her eyes and Stiles is grateful for it.  
  
He wants to manage his life. Wants to be independent. Sometimes, it feels like he has to prove to himself that he can function. That he can be a responsible adult. That he is not a worthless, useless little parasite, one of his foster Dads called him.  
  
He is someone. He can do this.  
  
He says goodbye to Melissa and drives to the center, listening half-heartedly to the radio while the jeep rattles and coughs. 

* * *

  
Thomas greets Stiles and seems to be in a better mood. He is humming under his breath while cleaning the kitchen. 

“How is Peter?” Stiles asks, opening a drawer and fetching the tranquilizer gun as always, the movements a routine.  
  
“He is drinking and he ate a little. Not as much as I wish he would. But it is something,” Thomas mutters. The tone of his voice tells Stiles he didn’t really expect it. No one expects Peter to improve. Stiles does. 

“He is a fighter,” Stiles says and smiles. Thomas mutters something incomprehensible and Stiles leaves the kitchen, heading towards Peter’s room.  
  


* * *

Peter lays on his side like usual, when Stiles enters the room. Today though, he actually chose to lay on the blankets instead on the bare tiles. 

Overall, there is not much change. Some people would say, there is zero. But Stiles has learned to pay attention to every little detail. He notices the way the wolf’s ears perk up when he enters. Notices that his fur is a little less patchy and his eyes a bit more lively. He notices.  
  
Stiles continues reading his book. He is just about to start the fifth chapter, when he notices a movement out of the corner of his eyes and looks up from the page. For the first time in the two weeks he is visiting Peter now, he sees the wolf trying to get up on his own.  
  
It is a long and obviously painful process. 

Stiles watches as Peter first gets on both fore-paws and then uses them to slowly heave the rest of his body up. The wolf’s legs are trembling and for a moment, Stiles thinks he will collapse again, but then Peter takes a few stumbling steps forward, swaying from side to side. He is heading for the water, Stiles understands. 

Even with his gaunt body, with the skin stretching over the bones and the fur still patchy, the wolf is huge. Like this, on all four legs, he is on eye level with Stiles. He remains sitting on the floor and doesn’t move, because he is not an idiot. Peter arrives at the water bowl and looks up for a moment, glancing at Stiles. He is aware that the wolf is checking out if he is going to be a threat. Drinking means to be vulnerable. Stiles just remains where he is and avoids direct eye contact. 

The wolf finally lowers his head and laps up the water. When he is finished, he throws another glance at Stiles, catching a few droplets of water dripping from his snout with his tongue. With a quiet huff, the wolf turns slowly, carefully, and drags his trembling body back to the blankets. He sinks down on them and yawns. 

Holy shit, Stiles thinks as he stares. No matter how often he sees fangs up close, it is breathtaking every single time. The row of perfect teeth, white and sharp and 100% deathly. 

Peter puts his head on his paws and closes his eyes. 

Stiles smiles and focuses on the book again. He is glad Peter is taking the effort of getting up and drinking. It is a good sign. A sign that he still wants to live. And Stiles is glad that the wolf is moving while he is present. He hopes it means that Peter gets used to him. That, maybe, the wolf gets into a rhythm too. 

* * *

Now and then, there is a day that interrupts Stiles’ rhythm.  
  
Like today. Today is the anniversary of his father’s death and it sucks like it always does. 

Stiles barely sleeps. When he finally slips into a restless slumber, he dreams of Parrish knocking at the door, telling him the news. He dreams of his father’s white face, barely standing out from the hospital sheets. He dreams of funerals and sad crying people all around him.  
  
In the morning, Stiles feels battered. After feeding Godzilla but not himself - only the thought of eating makes him feel sick - he aimlessly switches through the tv channels and shortly ends up on a discussion about werewolf rights. 

“I am just saying that we should take the worries of the citizens seriously. I would be scared too if a werewolf lived in my neighbourhood. They _are_ half animal after all. Animals act on instinct. Who can say for sure a werewolf won’t give in to his wolf’s instincts to hunt? I agree that they have every right to live, but we need better precautions in case one of them goes on a rampage again,” a man says, gesticulating wildly. A few other men nod with serious expressions on their faces. 

Stiles scoffs and turns the tv off. 

But. There is always a but. 

He doesn’t have the energy for this bullshit right now.  
  
After forcing himself to take a short shower, Stiles visits his parent’s grave. He puts some flowers on the tombstones and sits on a bench, staring at the letters on the stones numbly. 

_Claudia Stilinski. Beloved wife and mother._ _  
__  
_His mother … It is difficult to put into words, how he feels when he thinks about her. Stiles talked about his mother a lot in therapy. But the fact is, he barely remembers her. He remembers her in occasional flashbacks. They eat burgers in McDonalds, dress up as superheroes for Halloween, make lemonade or do the groceries. But it is all foggy. Shadows without contrast. Stiles knows he misses her. But it is a faint ache, palpable yet distant.  
  
His father … his father is a whole other thing. It hurts to remember him. Stiles can remember words. Laughs. Curses. Everything. It is a pulsing burning kind of pain.  
  
Combined, it threatens to tear him apart. Here he is. With both his parents dead. He feels cold and it has nothing to do with the rain suddenly beating down on him relentlessly. 

Stiles leaves the graveyard soon. After all, he has to go to work. 

* * *

“Hey Peter,” Stiles sighs, dragging his body into the room.  
  
Peter lays on the blankets, wagging his tail once when Stiles sits on the floor, his ears twitching. 

Stiles feels so damn tired. He wipes his burning eyes and blinks into the too bright lights. “Right,” he murmurs, opening his bag and searching for the book. “Oh, fuck … Sorry. I forgot it,” he says, feeling angry at himself. “Jesus. I’m such a fuckup.”  
  
The wolf makes a rumbling noise and slowly raises his head, eyes staring at Stiles intensely. 

Stiles shakes his head and hugs his own knees. “I’m sorry. Today is … It’s not a good day, you know? Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. And ... I really fucking miss him. I mean, it was kind of difficult when he was so down because of my Mum’s death, he didn’t really do anything. Just sat there at the kitchen table and … well, and drank and … I don’t know. I wish they would still be there. Both. Melissa is great. Really great. But still. You know, sometimes it just crushes me. This overwhelming longing to see my parents proud, but they aren’t here and they won’t ever come back.” 

Stiles sniffles. He can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. “My Dad will never see how I changed. I will never know what he would think about me. Would he like who I am today? Or would he be disappointed? I will never fucking know.” 

He wipes his face and sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do this. Come here only to whine. It’s pathetic. Sorry ...” The word faces into the silence of the room and he bites his lip.  
  
The wolf huffs and then gets up slowly. But this time, he doesn’t head for the water. Instead, Peter heads for Stiles.   
  
Stiles sucks in a surprised breath, but he doesn’t move. He remains sitting on the floor. Deaton taught him to always be on eye level with a wolf. It is not a good idea to tower above them. It is threatening. 

He avoids to look directly into Peter’s eyes when he comes closer, but he can’t help feeling a bit anxious. He keeps his focus on the little details that tell him what Peter’s intention is. His ears are up and his tail hangs down straight. He looks calm. Wolves, Stiles thinks, are way easier to read than humans. They show exactly what they are up to. There is no ambiguity in their body language.

Peter comes closer until Stiles feels a brush of fur against his arms. They touch for the first time. Stiles doesn’t move as the wolf sniffs at him. Hot breath hits the skin of Stiles’ neck and it tickles. Makes all the hairs there stand up. But he is not scared. Nothing about Peter’s behavior is threatening. It feels like being checked out.

Stiles makes a face when Peter licks his jaw next, because cold and ew, slobber, but inside, he already feels so much better. He didn’t think there would be so much interaction so fast. So early. When Peter even starts to rub against Stiles’ cheek, clearly scent-marking him, Stiles dares to touch as well. He carefully runs his fingers through the thick fur at the wolfs’ neck and chuckles breathlessly, when Peter wags his tail once.  
  
“Okay. Wow. So … are we both kind of touch-starved?” Stiles muses.

The wolf huffs and lays down on Stiles’ legs, effectively pinning him to the floor. Then he starts a constant rumbling that reminds Stiles of a purring cat. He carefully strokes his fingers through fur again and the rumbling intensifies, so he continues the movements until they are a steady rhythm. 

Peter closes his eyes and Stiles feels how he calms down. He feels so warm. He is surrounded by warmth. Stiles is overwhelmed by the fact that the wolf came to him to seek comfort and give it in return. Did Peter sense how upset Stiles was and decided to do something about it?, he wonders. 

He sits there and runs his fingers through fur, until his legs feel numb and the clock shows it is way after the end of his shift.  
  
Stiles feels almost guilty when he gently pushes the wolf from his legs, but Peter goes after a moment, heading for the blankets again. Stiles stares after him and mourns the warmth that disappears with the wolf.

* * *

Thomas is not alone when Stiles arrives at the center the next day. The woman with the sharp eyes and white smile is with him. The one who asked Stiles if they really housed werewolves at the center.  
  
Stiles frowns at her, but she acts all _Oh how nice to meet you again_ and shakes his hand enthusiastically. 

“You must be Stiles,” she says and smiles, “Thomas here has just given me the tour. It was quite fascinating.” Thomas grins dumbly at the woman, his eyes practically glued to her smile.  
  
“Who exactly are you again?” Stiles asks dryly, surprised that they let a strange woman simply enter the center. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself to you, how rude. My name is Angela Brooks. I am working for a new independent magazine about the Supernatural and we really want to write about your wonderful center, about all the hard work you are doing here,” the woman explains and hands him a card.  
  
“I see,” Stiles says, taking it hesitantly. “Well, I have to work now, so …”  
  
“Are you going to see Peter?” Thomas asks and he has something sharp in his voice that surprises Stiles.  
  
He frowns. “Yes, why?” 

“Just … Be careful. He was quite aggressive today,” Thomas says. 

“What?” Stiles asks, completely stunned. “Peter? Aggressive?” He snorts. “Oh come on, please.”  
  
Thomas throws him a confused glance. Angela watches the conversation with sparkling eyes and a polite smile.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “You didn’t hear? We basically cuddled yesterday. He came to me and scent-marked me. Then he laid on my legs and I was able to touch him. He was practically purring. Does that sound aggressive to you?” 

Thomas rubs the back of his head and sighs. “Stiles … I know you are fond of your wolves, but … As soon as we came close to the room, he was all growling and snapping and glaring. His eyes even started to gleam. He looked downright murderous. We wouldn’t have been able to go inside.”  
  
Stiles frowns. That … doesn’t sound like Peter at all. 

“I have to admit it was a bit scary to see a wolf like that,” Angela says lightly, stroking her blond hair back. “But he’s been through a lot right? Seeing things like he did, it certainly does things to the brain, the mind?” 

Thomas nods. “I don’t think he is stable. It is better to be cautious.” 

Stiles shakes his head, still feeling stunned. And cold. “I don’t understand … I have been in the room with him for two weeks now. He never showed any aggressive behavior.”  
  
“Well,” Angela says, smiling at Stiles. “Maybe he only accepts you, the werewolf whisperer, in there?” 

Stiles flinches and grimaces. “No … I’m not a, uh, _werewolf whisperer._ I … I just listen and observe. I just give them something to hold on to. An anchor. That’s all I do.” 

“Which is why I would be delighted if you’d agree to an interview. I am sure you could tell me and our audience so much about werewolves and how they really are,” Angela presses. 

Something in her voice makes Stiles frown. He swallows and shakes his head. “I’m not sure I am the right person for an interview,” he mumbles. 

“Think about it, Stiles,” Thomas chimes in. “Positive media attention wouldn’t be that bad for us. I mean sure, it is going to stir up all the weirdos and haters, but still. Some people might start to think, if they see what we are doing - what _you_ are doing - and that we aren’t housing bloodlusting monsters, but living beings who have suffered and now need help to process it, just like humans do.” 

“Hm.” Stiles can see the point of that. But … Whenever he sees Angela, he has a really weird feeling. Somehow, he doesn’t think she is who she pretends to be. 

“I will think about it,” he tells Angela, who beams at him.  
  
“Excellent! I can already see the headline,” she says brightly and shakes his hand again. Long and firmly. “Goodbye, Stiles.” 

Stiles only nods and leaves. 

He hurries to go and see Peter. Thomas’ words have stirred a lot of worry inside of him. He doesn’t get why Peter would act that way. All the time, he was either impassive and depressed, or attentive and calm. 

Stiles doesn’t think he has to worry. Not after the wolf practically slept on him the last day. So he opens the door without hesitation. “Hello, Peter,” he says brightly, closing it behind him. “I hope you only pretended to be a big bad wolf when they …”

He is interrupted by a low growl that makes him freeze. Stiles’ stomach sinks and the hairs in his neck stand up when he turns around slowly and sees an upright Peter staring at him, with his head lowered and his fangs bared. The wolf growls again. It sounds vicious.  
  
Stiles swallows and his legs tremble underneath him. 

Oh. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, cliffhanger ... 
> 
> Little teaser: The next chapter will be from Peter's POV.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for heavy angst, brief suicidal thoughts and Kate being Kate.
> 
> You can skip the first part of the chapter, if you have issues reading about the fire, you don't neccessarily need it for the plot. Simply start reading from the first [Now]! A [Back then] means backstory and will definitely involve describtions of the fire and of Kate being disgusting.

[Back then.]

Talia always told him that from all the werewolves she knew, he was the one closest to a wolf.

It was not a compliment. Not when it came from her. But the words made sense to Peter. They even made him a little proud. He knew where they were coming from.  
  
Peter loved full shift nights more than anyone else in the pack. He loved to merge with the wolf he has been connected with his whole life. He loved to run for miles and track a trail for days, until it either went cold and he chased after something else out of sheer frustration or until he found and killed his prey. He once pounced an elk all alone and Talia later called him stupid, for hunting such a strong animal on his own. “The shift makes you careless,” she accused him. And maybe, she was right. But Peter didn't really care.  
  
When he was the wolf, he felt more at ease with himself. The wolf was all about instincts. The wolf lived in the moment, not in the past or future. Peter as a human thought a lot about the past and future. His parents didn’t make their aversion a secret. They didn’t want him and how could they, with a daughter like Talia? She was perfect in their eyes. Compared to her, Peter looked like the runt of the pack. Of course Talia would be the Alpha one day, of course she would have great pups and of course she would carry on the bloodline in the most precious way.

In the past, Peter tried a lot of things to get attention. He later called himself stupid for it. But he tried. Oh, he tried. He learned everything about their kind and any other supernatural form of life. He learned to fight and to trick and to persuade. In the end, it only led to his parents deciding he would make a great Left Hand. And he did, there was no denying it. But it just made him more of an outsider. No one liked to be close to someone with blood on their hands, especially in times where werewolves tried to get more accepted by society.  
  
At least, it helped him to accept his faith. He stopped trying to impress anyone and just did what he could to protect the few people he really cared about. Like Derek and Cora. They didn’t look at him like he was beneath them. Instead, they looked up to him and wanted to be taught. So he taught them. Maybe not always the right or good things, but well, they were werewolves after all, they had to learn what that meant.

Because Peter never really believed in the apparent peace. He knew about Gerard Argent, who lived too close to the pack, and his attitude towards anything supernatural. He knew what Gerard taught his own children. The old man would never stop hating werewolves. Peter was sure, if anyone would try to make a move on them, it would be Gerard. And he stayed wary.  
  
Being a wolf made him forget about the worries of the present and future. He ran in the forest, got moon drunk and sometimes didn’t want to shift back. The longest he was gone was a week, and when he came back, he had difficulties to shift back to human, his wolf retreating only reluctantly. “One day,” Talia said, her voice sounding defeated, “You will stay a wolf and I will have to take care no one tries to kill you.”

“I’ll take care of that myself,” Peter told her and immediately regretted his sharp tone that made his sister flinch and look away. But he didn’t apologize. He has always taken care of himself and he will continue to do so. Just like he took care of any threat. He didn’t really care if he did it as the human or the wolf. His heart already tended towards the latter, while his rational mind decided differently.  
  
Peter has never felt ashamed for what he is. Other than Talia, who struggled when she grew older and slowly understood what it meant to be different. Truly, utterly different. Of course, she grew up in a different environment.

When Talia shifted for the first time, she was twelve years old and a court had just decided against treaties with the local packs. They still allowed hunters to put down werewolves who killed someone innocent immediately and they approved of groups of hunters forming armed militias. They were fast to turn a blind eye to what the hunter used to call “accidents”.

It was dangerous to be different.

When Peter was born, the world was still dangerous, but there was more sympathy for the Supernatural. And it was growing. Soon, there were humans demanding more rights for werewolves and stricter rules for hunters. There were efforts to get more interaction between humans and supernaturals, to promote understanding and fighting hate speech. It was a slow process and by the time Peter shifted for the first time, there were still enough hunters - mostly the descendants of century old hunter families who thought of hunting as their birthright - who would rather wipe out every single werewolf than talk to them about peace. But Peter soon learned to understand, there would always be people like that. Hate is a powerful thing, and difficult to get rid of, since it replaced emotions such people would rather not face.  
  
Still, times were changing and it took a few more years, but suddenly, hunters weren’t allowed to kill anymore, werewolves should have a fair trial just as humans, there were now ambassadors for the Supernatural in politics and it wasn’t so difficult anymore, to get accepted by colleges and apply for jobs. Peter finally managed to start studying law and he already knew he would be a damn good lawyer.

The Argents personally sent the Hales a letter saying there would be peace, signed by the highest matriarch, Constance Angeline Argent.  
  
Talia was euphoric, Peter was still wary, thinking of Gerard Argent and his open hate speeches.  
  


Peter’s wariness grew when he met Kate Argent one day.  
  


He was in the village, trying to find a birthday present for Derek. The boy was now entering the most annoying stage of puberty that made him withdrawn and easy to goad. When Peter had asked him what he wanted, Derek had shrugged, murmured something incomprehensible and turned back to his mobile phone that was making urgent noises. 

So Peter went from shop to shop, until he found the leather jacket and decided Derek really needed something else to dress than his worn out grey shirts and thick jackets that made him look like a grumpy yeti. When he was inspecting the jacket from all sides critically, someone approached him. A human. He noticed but didn’t really react, until the person leaned too far into his personal space and he grew irritated.  
  
“Can I help you?” Peter snapped and turned his head, to look into light brown eyes that somehow managed to appear cold. The woman was smiling, but it didn’t look like she meant it.  
  
“Maybe,” she said, looking him up and down. “I am looking for wolves in sheep’s clothing, after all. My, you really are a specimen, aren’t you.”

Peter frowned. Only now did he notice the necklace around the woman’s neck. It had the Argent sign on it. A fleur de lys. “I don’t know who you are, but you should know that the Argent matriarch personally sent a letter declaring peace and hunting is officially forbidden now, so, I guess I can’t be of any use to you,” he said tightly and turned to go and pay for the jacket.

The woman chuckled. “Your voice is as sharp as your teeth. Who said anything about hunting? I don’t intend to hunt. I’m just here to watch and learn. Maybe, we’ll meet again. Who knows? I’m certainly looking forward to it. My name is Kate Argent by the way, you might want to memorize it,” she said, smirking and waving at Peter, before she turned on her heels and walked away.

Kate. That made her Gerard Argent’s daughter. Peter stared after her, a strange feeling spreading in his chest. He knew it well. It was worry mixed with the premonition of trouble. 

* * *

  
Derek liked his birthday present more than Peter had expected. He even got a hug from his nephew, which ended in a scent-marking without Derek smelling embarrassed.  
  
While the pups tended to their cake and chattered, Peter took Talia aside and told her about Kate Argent. Talia frowned, but she shook her head. “She can’t do anything. Not now, with all the treaties and rules, Peter. You are worrying too much. I know you have to, but calm down. We are safe.”  
  
“Treaties and rules can’t change people’s feelings, Talia,” Peter pressed, feeling increasingly frustrated. “There are still enough werewolf hating people who would nod to everything Kate Argent would say. We should be more careful.”

Talia sighed. Her eyes flashed briefly, reflecting her own frustration. “Alright, little brother. Do what you have to do.”  
  
Peter did watch Kate after that. Once, their gazes met and she smiled at him, showing teeth like a predator. And oh, he did think she was a predator on her own. But he didn’t see any proof that she was preparing anything vile.  
  
The bad feeling still didn’t leave him. It stayed with him for almost two years.  
  
  


* * *

The night it happened, Peter was stuck in traffic and about to be late for Cora’s birthday, which annoyed him immensely.

 _This wouldn’t have happened if I had shifted and ran_ , he thought sullenly, drumming a restless rhythm on the steering wheel.

It took hours until he was finally able to drive on and he was so late, Cora probably was long asleep and wouldn’t see his gift till morning. He hoped there was still some of the cake left, when he took the street leading into the woods and towards the house, only to freeze in his seat, when he smelled the air.

Smoke.

The closer he came to the house, the stronger the smell got. His stomach turned to ice and he swallowed around a lump in his throat. No, he thought. That couldn't be. Surely the house wasn't ...

It was. The house was on fire. The flames were high and fast, lighting up the night sky in a sickening orange.  
  
Peter stopped the car and stared, hypnotized by the dancing flames for a moment.

He stared and then he heard the screams.  
  
Everything after would be a blur later. Pictures without contrast, mingling into each other like an incoherent nightmare.

Somehow, he jumped out of the car and ran. Somehow, he entered the house and located the screams. Down in the basement, where the secret tunnels were, so why … Why were they still here?!

He understood when he ran into the mountain ash barrier and got thrown backwards by it.

The barrier and the sickening sweet smell of wolfsbane in the smoke made it clear.

Hunters. Hunters did this. _Kate Argent._

Rage mingled with desperation as Peter slammed against the mountain ash barrier, trying to get through. Trying to get to where he still heard the screams. There were less now. They sounded hoarse. And defeated.  
  
 _No. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real,_ Peter begged nothing and everything. He didn’t believe in a God, but he still begged for this to be a nightmare. Not reality. But it was. He screamed and hit the mountain ash barrier that didn’t falter at all.  
  
The screams slowly died down and the flames grew higher and higher.  
  
His family was dying down there. His family. His sister, his brother in law, his nieces - God, they were only children. They did nothing wrong, nothing! - and nephews and … Everyone.  
  
The realization was sharp and hot, just like the flames that reached for him when he didn’t stop to slam his body against the mountain ash barrier. His wolf started to crawl at the edges of his mind, urging him to run, to flee, to save himself. For what? Peter asked numbly. For what? There is nothing left after this. I didn’t protect my family. I was supposed to protect them. And now they are dying. I can as well stay and die with them.  
  
He would have. He would have stayed, flames already licking at his skin - but his wolf took control.  
  
It was the first time in his life, that the shift came violently and forcefully. It hurt almost as much as the burns. Peter fought it. He fought the wolf with all he got, but his mind was too weak, stricken with grief and desperation. 

The wolf backed away from the mountain ash barrier he couldn’t break and ran.

The wolf ran out of the house, burning his paws in the process, since the flames had long cut off every exit. He howled in agony and limped away from the burning house, into the forest, where the grass was mercifully cold.  
  
The wolf walked as far as he could and Peter started to walk on the edge between being human and being the wolf - for the first time, he didn’t feel at ease with himself in this form, for the first time, he felt shattered and detached from himself. 

* * *

  
[Now]

  
Peter wakes up from a nightmare and realizes it is another day with him floating in the void that he found himself in after he turned into the wolf without wanting it.

The wolf dreams with him, but while he wakes up truly, Peter stays in the shadowy space between dream and reality.  
  
Sometimes, they dream of better times. Of full moon nights spent amidst of family, pack. Of familiar scents. Of affection and warmth.  
  
Sometimes, Peter feels he is more aware than usual, closer to the surface and probably close to being able to shift back. But he doesn’t. It is easier to let go, than to fight for more control. Why should he fight at all? There is nothing left to fight for. He has nothing left. He is alone. Damaged. Broken. He couldn’t protect his family. He is useless. He sinks back into the shadows and wishes often enough, he could stop to think or feel anything at all.

His parents and other older Hales told stories about Weres who stayed wolves for years and lost their human side completely in the process. Maybe, Peter is about to become one of them. Maybe, he is going to be the wolf and the wolf alone eventually. Right now, that doesn’t sound like a bad option.

Maybe, he would stop dreaming all the time then. It is agony.

He dreams of dying in the fire. Dreams of laying down beside the lifeless bodies of his sister, her husband and their children. He closes his eyes and drifts off into the darkness, surrounded by the everlasting noise of roaring flames.

Other times, he dreams of slamming into the mountain ash barrier, until he is burnt completely, only a carcass like the house around him.

He can hear the echo of screams and taste smoke, even in the void.

Sometimes, he is aware he is somewhere where people try to help him for some reason. Not really a hospital, but something similar. The room he is in is white, bright and smells of disinfectant. There are blankets on the floor, but the wolf doesn’t try to reach them. He just lays on his side and Peter knows the wolf is weak because he is just as shattered as Peter is.  
  
They are still connected, but they are not one, somehow. Just … shattered.

Peter could probably force his shifted body to move. But for a long time, he doesn’t find the strength to care at all. The wolf doesn’t care either. He doesn’t move, ignores the water and the food although his body starts to scream for it.

They just float in the silence.

Peter is vaguely aware that they sometimes drug him. There is fog that makes the wolf tired and boneless. His eyes fall shut and when he opens them again, he can smell someone has been there. Someone is leaving their strange scents on him. Normally, the wolf would lick it away, but he doesn’t have the energy.

One day, the young man comes into his room.

He smells like soap, books, coffee and dog. Often, he smells of misery too. It is heavy in the air. But his voice is always light and fast. He talks a lot, the young man. And he fidgets while he talks, his fingers long and quick. His skin is very pale, dotted with moles. The rings around his amber eyes speak of too little sleep.

The wolf likes the young man.  
  
 _Stiles_ , Peter thinks, filling in the gap. _His name is Stiles._ It is one of the very few things he is aware of. Stiles is a strange name. But it feels real.

Stiles reads to him. His voice is smooth and clear. It feels like something he could hold on to. So Peter does. It is better than floating. He doesn’t really understand why Stiles is there and what he is trying to do. But his scent grows familiar and soon, the wolf and Peter look forward to seeing the young man, to hearing his grounding voice. When Stiles is in the room, he feels like it is easier to leave the void and come forward, to feel his body more.

Peter - or is it the wolf - gives in to his body’s screams and drinks. He even eats a little, although it tastes like smoke.

One day, the young man comes in and smells sadder than usual. Peter listens as Stiles tells about his father. Somehow, Peter thinks Stiles is an outsider. And he knows how it's like to be an outsider. How it feels and what comes with it. He tries to push forward a bit, because he suddenly feels the urge to comfort Stiles.  
  
The wolf is a bit reluctant. Peter still manages to move this body that is weak and trembles. He moves and Stiles smells a bit anxious, but he remains sitting on the floor, not looking into the wolf’s eyes.

 _He knows a lot_ , Peter thinks, surprised and a bit pleased. _He knows wolf etiquette._

Stiles chuckles when the wolf licks his jaw and scent-marks him. He starts to smell more content, when he strokes his fingers through fur and looks down at Peter on his legs. In that moment, the wolf and Peter are almost one, not entirely shattered but also not entirely connected.  
  


* * *

  
One day, the wolf gets up to drink, and notices a movement out of the corner of his eyes. He looks up.  
  
There are two people in front of the glass. One is a young man the wolf sees often, he is one of those who leave their scent on him sometimes. And beside him … A woman. When the wolf’s eyes fall on the woman, everything disappears behind a haze of white hot rage. Peter’s mind screams havoc.

It is her. It is Kate Argent. It is the murderer of his family.  
  
The rage burns out every other feeling. He has never been so close to be the wolf and nothing else. So close to give up his human side completely, alone for the urge to kill.

He growls and wants - needs - to find a way out of this room. Needs to find a way to lunge at this demon, to tear her apart …  
  
The young man beside Kate looks a bit shaken. But the wolf focuses on Kate. Kate, who is smiling. She is smiling knowingly. And when the man turns around to leave, Kate remains a moment, waving at Peter.  
  
She leaves and the wolf can’t stop growling, the urge to kill still so strong, it makes his vision go red.

In his mind, he is thrown back, back to the night of the fire. 

* * *

[Back then.]

  
  


The wolf dragged his body through the forest, long after the human gave up.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just moved away from the fire. As far away as possible.

But eventually, the wolf couldn’t keep his burnt, weakened body upright anymore. He collapsed, panting and close to passing out.  
  
He was alone for a long moment. Until steps approached.  
  
The wolf wanted to get up and growl a warning. But he couldn’t. He could just lay there, and freeze when the familiar scent hit him. He growled weakly. A chuckle answered him.

“Well, look what we have here,” Kate Argent said, her voice vibrating with open glee. She bent over the wolf, Her foot nudging his side and God, it hurt. The pain was white and sharp. There was a whimper he barely even recognized as his own. Kate chuckled again.

“I told you, we’ll meet again,” she whispered, stroking a finger through fur covered in ash, and the wolf tried to recoil in vain.

One of the men who was with Kate pulled out a gun, his expression a combination of disgust and something like reluctant pity.

But Kate reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist, shaking her head gently. He looked at her in disbelief. “If he survives, he is going to talk.”  
  
Kate laughed. “I don’t think so. I think he is not going to talk for a long time. And even if he does, so what? They won’t believe him. They will think, poor little mutt, went totally crazy because of his family’s death in this awful fire an electric malfunction caused according to the police, what a tragedy. Don't forget who is on my pay list, Hank.”

The man made a doubtful noise, but he obviously didn’t dare to act against Kate’s orders.

“Look out for more strays,” Kate said and the group of men walked away. Kate remained, crouching beside the wolf.

“I hope you won’t forget me,” she whispered in his ear. “I hope you will remember that I did this to you. I will continue until I wiped out your disgusting kind. There is no place for you in this world. It belongs to the humans. There might be fools now, who think humans and monsters can live side by side, but they will wake up. We’ll take care of that. Let’s see if you pull through, huh? And if you do, don’t worry, I will come back for you. End what I started.” She laughed quietly and stood up, leaving without another glance back.  
  
Time passed. The pain came in waves. The wolf whined and tried to lick his wounds, but he was too weak. Peter could feel himself float away. Something was wrong with their connection. Something …

He didn’t know how much time passed, until someone else broke through the undergrowth and sank down on the forest floor beside him. Derek. Derek was there and he was crying. The tears smelled salty. Derek said something, but Peter didn’t understand. He felt glad that Derek was alive. That was the last coherent thought he had for a long time. 

He must have passed out for a while, because when he came to, there were strange scents all around him and the forest was gone, but the pain was still there.

The wolf was half-delirious, snapping at somebody's fingers before there was the sting of a needle and merciful nothingness.  
  
  


* * *

[Now.]

  
She is here. Kate is here.

Unable to calm down, the wolf paces the room until his still tender paws burn and ache. The rage is still fresh and it keeps him going.  
  
Suddenly, the door opens and the wolf flinches, stopping the pacing.

Someone enters.

It is Stiles. For a moment, the wolf calms down, affection and trust warming him.

But then, Stiles’ scent floods the room and something inside the wolf snaps. He growls automatically and Stiles freezes, his eyes widening.

It is _her_. Kate. Her scent is clinging to the young man. The wolf bares his fangs and ducks his head, his body tensing.

Stiles staggers back. The smell of fear spikes up.

 _He is with her_ , the wolf thinks, hatred and fear drowning out every other sensation. It burns the newly built trust. _He is with her, he is a liar, he is the enemy.  
_

Peter perks up and fights back. It doesn’t make sense. Stiles wouldn’t … Not Stiles. Maybe, he doesn’t know who she is. Maybe she is playing with him. She likes to play, likes to fool and trick while acting all innocent. Stiles _can’t_ be with her.

Stiles is saying something. He reeks of confusion and fear, pointing something at Peter that looks like a gun - _gun, hunter!_ the wolf screams - but Stiles is not a hunter. He is good, he is trying to help, he …

The wolf doesn’t agree. The wolf knows they are not safe here. The wolf wants to run and find the woman and maul her.

Stiles is in the way.

 _I have to protect him_ , Peter realizes.

He gathers every bit of mental strength that he still has left and pushes forward.  
  


Peter pushes and it hurts and for a long moment, he knows nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

“Don’t run away,” Deaton told Stiles once, when they were talking about what to do in case of facing an aggressive wolf. “Running away will make you look like prey. Don’t yell or make sudden movements. Calmly and slowly back away. Move to the exit with your back to the wall. Never turn your back on a growling wolf.”

Deaton’s ever prudent voice echoes through Stiles' mind right now. Now that everything seems to happen in slow motion. Now that he is suddenly standing right in front of a huge growling wolf. His heart hammers in his chest and his stomach clenches. It is not all fear. It is hurt too. He thought there was trust between them. Thought there was something connecting them.

Stiles doesn’t understand where this is coming from. Maybe, he doesn’t even want to understand. Not when Peter looks downright murderous - just like Thomas said - and doesn’t stop growling. 

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat and takes a slow step backwards, his hand fumbling for the tranquilizer gun. He points it at the wolf. “Okay. Listen. What is in this gun is going to give you a horrible headache. Really, really horrible. I don’t want to use it. Why don’t you calm down. There really is no need to get cranky …”

Stiles has no idea if Peter even understands him. Doesn’t know if his human side is present at all. The wolf at least, doesn’t seem to care about his words. The growling intensifies. It vibrates through the room, right through Stiles’ body. He shivers. Fuck. Okay. 

It seems like he has to shoot Peter after all. God. Stiles _hates_ to shoot wolves. He is no hunter. Would never want to be or come across as one of them. When he shoots at Peter, it is possible that he will never be able to gain his trust again. 

He really doesn’t want to do this. Every single cell of his mind fights the sheer idea of firing the gun and watching the wolf passing out.  
  
But Stiles doesn’t know how much time he has until the wolf decides to attack. He is almost at the door, but he has no idea if he will be able to open and exit it without risking teeth around his throat. He could still press the call button, but that would mean that his backup would most likely use wolfsbane gas and Stiles hates that too. Fuck. He just has to try again. He never gives up on a wolf after all. The wolf scent-marked him, snuggled against him … There has to be something inside him that doesn’t want to maul Stiles. 

_I guess I made my decision_ , Stiles thinks. He lowers the gun and clears his throat. “Peter,” he says firmly, “Calm down. I don’t know why your wolf suddenly sees me as a threat he has to eliminate, I don’t know what happened, but I still care. I care and I can help. I want to help. If you hear me, you have to calm down. Otherwise, I will either have to use the gun or call for backup. And none of these options is going to end pleasant. Please …

Stiles is so absorbed by his words, he doesn’t even notice the growling stops. Not immediately. He is about to repeat his plea, when he realizes, it is very silent in the room. The wolf’s hackles are still raised and his lips pulled back from his fangs, but he isn’t growling anymore. Instead, he makes a noise that sounds like a snarl changing into a whine. It is choked off in the middle.  
  
Stiles stares, surprised and transfixed, as the wolf takes two stumbling steps backwards, lowering his head and shaking it from side to side, whining again. The noises sound agonized. Stiles wishes he could do anything aside from standing there and staring, but he doesn’t know what is happening, so he has no choice but to wait.  
  
Although Stiles has been working with a lot of wolves over the years, he has never seen a shift with his own eyes. So he doesn’t realize the start of it immediately. He only realizes what is going on, when the wolf’s eyes start to gleam blue and he freezes, fur bristling.

In front of Stiles’ wide eyes, fur retreats and bones change, the wolf’s snout shortens and his tail disappears. It is a shift, but he quickly realizes, it is not as smooth and fast as it should be. As Deaton has described it. Instead, it seems quite painful and unsteady, fur first changing into skin, only to switch again. There are whines and grunts and it all looks bizarre. 

Stiles feels the sudden urge to look away, but he can’t. He’s frozen in place. Frozen as he stares at the werewolf caught on the edge between wolf and human, until the human part seems to win and jumps forward; until instead of the wolf, a man kneels on the floor, his head hanging low between his shoulders as he pants, supporting himself on trembling arms. 

“Oh my … Peter?” Stiles asks, stunned, his heart pounding. 

The werewolf makes a noise that sounds like half a groan and a sob, raising his head and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. His heart sinks when he realizes Peter’s human side has been hurt more by the fire than his wolf. One side of his face is a map of not fully healed burns that are without a doubt about to change into thick scar tissue. His malnourished state is now so much more obvious, without the thick fur hiding the bones. Stiles could count his ribs if he’d tried. His hair is messy and looks brittle, but underneath that all, he is still that handsome man Stiles saw with the kids at school. 

He knows he should probably call someone, call help, but he still can’t move, too spellbound by this, by what he has just witnessed. 

Peter’s eyes are still gleaming neon blue as they stare at Stiles. His mouth opens and closes a few times, nothing coming over his lips as if he forgot how to talk. But then, he manages to make his voice work for one word. “Stiles …”  
  
Stiles flinches. Peter’s voice is faint and hoarse, but there is no mistaking. He has just said his name. 

“Stiles,” Peter says again, more urgent. For a moment, it seems like he is trying to say something else, but then, everything goes to hell. 

Suddenly, Peter yelps and bends over, his body clenching. Stiles’ stomach sinks when he sees fur sprouting back. For a long moment, it seems like Peter is shifting back to his wolf side - involuntarily. His hurt noises begin to sound more like growls, but then, somehow, he jumps back from it and makes the fur retreating - for a volatile moment. Within seconds, he starts to bend and groan again, claws retreating and protruding rhythmically, his face forming into a grotesque snout only to spring back. 

_He can’t control it_ , Stiles thinks vaguely, shivering. He can’t do anything. He just stands there, watching as Peter is shifting back and forth, clearly fighting for control.  
  
It is a noise that sounds like a human scream mingled with the howl of a wolf, that makes Stiles wake up. He flinches and hits the call button at the door, not able to tear his gaze from the writhing, changing body on the floor. Maybe, now, they can do something to help Peter stay in his human shift, he thinks. Maybe. 

He stays and stares, until the door opens and Thomas grabs his arm, pulling him out. 

“Hey!” Stiles yells, trying to break away. “I want to stay with him!”

“Stiles don’t be stupid! He can’t control himself right now,” Thomas hisses, his gaze fixed on Peter, who snarls at the sound of his voice, raising his head, his eyes glowing and fangs bared. 

Thomas hurriedly closes the door once he and Stiles are out of the room. 

“What is happening to him?” Stiles asks breathlessly. “Have you seen something like this, before?” 

“Not, uh, this. Looks like he is fighting with the wolf,” Thomas says and frowns. “We’ll have to sedate him, before he hurts himself. It’s surprising enough that he turned back to human in such a short amount of time. Something must have pulled him out.” 

Stiles hates it, but he has to admit Thomas is right. Peter is clearly not in control and the constant shifting must hurt him. He still feels horrible when the non lethal wolfsbane gas makes the werewolf pass out in seconds, thankfully not in full wolf shift.  
  
Stiles keeps his eyes on Peter’s emaciated body and swallows around the heavy lump in his throat. “I think he wanted to tell me something,” he murmurs, “it was ... strange. First, his wolf growled at me all viciously, then he shifted to human and said my name. I don’t know. Something about this is off.” 

Thomas pats his shoulder comfortingly. “Well, whatever it is he wanted to tell you, it will have to wait. Now that he shifted, the doctors will check him through and transfer him to another ward. I’m sure you can see him once they give their permission. You should be glad, Stiles. You did a good job. I have to admit, I didn’t think he would ever shift back. But he did in only a few weeks.” 

“Hm,” Stiles makes. He would like to feel glad about this, but he can’t. He can’t shake off the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. It makes him feel cold.  
  


* * *

The next few days pass at an unbearably slow tempo. 

Stiles asks for Peter the next day but only gets the answer that he is being treated and monitored. No visitors for now. Too stressful. 

They also tell him that since he is no family member, he doesn’t have a right to know more, and that almost makes Stiles snap, because Peter has almost no family members left, aside from Derek, who didn’t give them a phone number and is probably keeping a bit of a distance to the town, to process what happened - which is understandable, of course. They should be glad someone who lost so much has someone who cares at all. But well.  
  
Stiles leaves the center after this talk to the doctor, feeling very frustrated and impatient.

Now that he can’t visit Peter at the center anymore and there is no new werewolf waiting for his help, he feels restless. At least, Godzilla seems happy he doesn’t smell so strongly of wolf anymore.

Stiles tries to distract himself with doing some research, reading about the major he might do sometime or never and binging a few Netflix shows. While sitting on the couch with a sleeping Godzilla draped over his knees, he finds himself wondering what kind of shows Peter likes. Does he like tv shows at all? And from there, he goes back to the moment he saw Peter shifting, the moment their eyes met. He remembers how Peter said his name. How urgent it sounded on his lips. 

It is really hard to focus on Game of Thrones or Lucifer, when there is a werewolf who probably wanted to tell him something important, before shifting uncontrollable. 

Angela calls him once, asking him if he would be available for an interview now.  
  
“Uh,” Stiles says uncertainly, stroking Godzilla’s fur to calm himself while trying to find words that are not rude. Because he feels like he is going to say something rude. “It’s not such a perfect time right now, to be honest. Can I call you back?” 

“Of course, darling,” she says brightly. “It’s no rush. Take all the time you need.”

She sounds … nice. “Thank you,” Stiles says sincerely.  
  
On some days, Stiles goes on a longer walk with Godzilla, walking past the Hale house. He sometimes hopes to find Derek somewhere, because then he would be able to tell him Peter shifted back and would certainly be happy to have his nephew - and Alpha - close, but he never sees the werewolf. Whenever he passes the black carcass of the Hale house, Godzilla starts to growl and pull Stiles away from it. It makes Stiles shiver, because who knows what kind of ghosts the dog is sensing here … 

* * *

After a week and a half, Stiles is told he can see Peter.  
  
He rushes to the center and is more than annoyed, when a doctor comes to stand in his way, wanting to talk about Peter’s condition.  
  
“Please take care not to stress him Mr. Stilinski. He may come across as very calm and clear, but he is still unstable. Three days ago he managed to bite a nurse …”

“He bit a nurse?” Stiles asks startled, now less annoyed and more worried. “As a wolf, or …”

“He shifted only partly,” the doctor explains, frowning. “But he was close to shifting fully again, yes. We are not completely sure why. There have to be some triggers we can’t know of. Smells, or touches or anything else. So, please, be aware of any shifts in his mood and don’t hesitate to call for help.” The doctor clears his throat and his frown deepens, as his voice becomes more urgent. “I am sure that since you work here too, that you are aware of the current situation. We and the werewolves don’t need negative headlines. Every incident could change things for them. And I certainly don’t want to fight radical people who order me to put a Were down ever again.” 

Stiles can’t help but feel respect for this doctor. He nods firmly. “I’m going to take care, don’t worry.” 

The doctor looks satisfied. At least, he smiles slightly and the frown partly disappears from his tired face. “Good.” He hands Stiles a card. “This unlocks the door. Take care to lock it again, when you leave. Don’t step past the barrier. And please don’t stay longer than half an hour.”  
  
Stiles takes the card and nods, his heart already pounding in his chest. Maybe, Peter is going to tell him what he wanted to say when he couldn’t, he thinks. Or hopes. 

* * *

It feels good to see Peter in a proper bed, in a proper room with furniture and a window.

It feels not so good to see how exhausted the werewolf looks. The color of his skin barely stands out against the white sheets. The burned half of his face is hidden behind bandages probably soaked in the sweet-smelling magic herbs Deaton uses for injured Weres too. His eyes are closed, but they flutter open when Stiles enters. Peter’s nostrils flare and he tilts his head to the side to look at Stiles. His eyes are so blue, Stiles first thinks they are gleaming. But they only look so bright, because the rest of Peter is so ghostly pale, he realizes.  
  
“Hi,” Stiles says, shifting his weight awkwardly. He can’t sit in front of the bed. First, there is no chair, secondly, he is not allowed to step past the thin black line on the floor. Mountain ash. It doesn’t make Stiles feel good to know it is there. Because it must make Peter feel trapped. Trapped like in the fire … Stiles swallows.  
  
Peter’s eyes scan him for a long moment. Finally, the werewolf slowly sits up, every movement clearly a struggle. “You are Stiles,” he says. His voice is still hoarse, but clearer now. 

“Yeah. That's me," Stiles nods, smiling sheepishly.  
  
Peter hums. “You were there … Talking to my wolf. Talking to me. I could hear you. Even when I was almost gone. I could hear you. You helped me to feel … more grounded. Thank you.”   
  
Stiles smiles carefully. Peter’s words sound sincere and they warm him. “I am glad you were able to shift back,” he says, “I liked your wolf. And … Well, for a while I had the feeling he likes me too, but … When he, you, uh, when you started growling at me, I was scared I did something wrong …”

Peter softly shakes his head. “You did nothing wrong, Stiles. Not you. I … I apologize for what happened. You see, my connection to my wolf isn’t the same anymore. Maybe it will never be the same again. He took control and it was hard to push forward. I didn’t care for a long time, so I let it happen. Until you came. But Stiles … You have to be careful. You smelled like someone. Someone dangerous. That's why my wolf was almost blind with rage,” Peter suddenly scowls and Stiles frowns.  
  
“Someone dangerous? I … Sorry, I don’t understand.” Who could be dangerous at the center? There are only people who want to help werewolves. They make sure of it. Everyone has to have a long talk with a specialist before they start working. Everyone has to take a test to prove they only want the best for the Weres at the center. Stiles feels increasingly confused. His mind is racing.  
  
Peter sighs. He slowly reaches out to take a bottle of water from the night table and gulps it down, before he continues talking. “I will explain it to you. You smelled like the woman who is responsible for the fire that killed my family,” he says, his body tensing and eyes narrowing. “Kate Argent.” He spits the name out like a curse word.  
  
“Kate Argent,” Stiles repeats. The name … It does ring a bell. He startles. The woman who started the fire was at the center? Touched him? Who … "How does she look like?"

Peter watches him closely. “She is blond. Brown eyes that are always sharp. Her smile never reaches them,” he snarls. 

Stiles’ heart seems to miss a beat. “Wait. Angela?” he breathes incrediously, “The ... the woman from the newspaper? Angela is Kate Argent? She is a hunter? She … Oh my God. She caused the fire? Oh my … That makes sense in a very awful way.” His legs suddenly feel weak and he wishes there was something to sit on in the room. It really does make sense that it is her.  
  
That is why Stiles felt she isn’t who she pretends to be. That’s why she wants to be close to the wolves, wants to know everything about the center. Because …

“She is planning something, right?” Stiles says hollowly, his stomach clenching painfully. Oh God. She is planning something awful and no one knows about it ...

Peter looks a bit wary. "So ... you believe me?” 

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Stiles asks back, frowning.  
  
Peter smiles curtly. It looks bitter. “Oh, Stiles. You would understand, if you were a wolf.” The next moment, his face becomes stony. “You have to help me, Stiles. You have to let me out.”  
  
“What?” Stiles asks, startling.  
  
“You have to let me out,” Peter repeats urgently. “Break the mountain ash barrier. Kate … She is dangerous. She hates everything supernatural and she certainly is here to finish the job. Kill the last Hales. And once she starts, she won’t stop. She will kill every wolf here, and every one helping them. I have to stop her. I have to avenge my family. Let me out, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles swallows heavily. He gets it. He gets Peter’s desperation and determination. He understands. But … “I don’t want to be rude. But I don’t think you are in any state to go against a hunter,” he says carefully. “You have just shifted back. You are exhausted, injured and malnourished. It would be suicidal to ...”  
  
“So what?!” Peter hisses, and Stiles flinches a little, surprised by the sudden outburst. It breaks all the calmth that has surrounded Peter a moment ago. “So what if it is suicidal? It is not like I have anything left to lose, right? My family is gone. All the packbonds … You have no idea how it feels like when they break. Killing Kate and taking revenge is the only thing I have left, the only thing I can do now. I have to get out of here and do something. The wolf would have never gotten out of here, but I can. If you help me, Stiles.” 

Stiles bites his lip. Peter’s voice has something so desperate in it now … He almost feels tempted to do it. To break the mountain ash line, to …

The door opens and Peter growls. Stiles turns around and sees the doctor, looking at him sternly. “I think, I said half an hour is enough, Mr. Stilinski,” he says mildly.  
  
“Oh. Uh. Yeah, sorry,” Stiles stutters, glancing at Peter, who is clearly trying to stay calm. But his eyes are gleaming briefly.  
  
“I’m coming back tomorrow,” Stiles promises.  
  
Peter doesn’t say anything. He lays back down carefully and turns his head on the pillow, facing the wall and ignoring the humans in the room.  
  
Stiles swallows. And leaves, following the doctor.  
  
He feels shaken.  
  


* * *

Stiles dreams of chasing something through the woods. It is a strange kind of nightmare. He can feel the joy of the hunt, the urge to kill. What is he? He has no idea. And just when he thinks he is about to catch whatever he is hunting, he wakes up, sitting upright in his bed. Wide-eyed he stares into the void, wondering. Something woke him up, something is …  
  
Godzilla barks and scratches at the door of Stiles’ sleeping room frantically.  
  
And that is when Stiles smells it. 

Smoke.  
  
He jumps out of bed and opens the door, scooping up Godzilla and running towards the source of the smell.

The couch is on fire.  
  
He stares for a moment, completely transfixed by the dance of orange flames.

But Godzilla’s urgent barking makes him move. He puts the dog into the bathroom, where the smoke is the less present, and grabs a heavy blanket, slamming it on the flames as hard as he can, again and again. He coughs and feels a bit lightheaded, but at least, the flames die down slowly, choking under the blanket.  
  
Relieved, Stiles continues, glancing through the room. He notices, that a window stands open and frowns. He never leaves a window open. And how the hell did the couch catch fire? There is no way …  
  
Stiles freezes. Time stands still for a moment. Of course. This wasn’t an accident, right? 

When the flames died completely, Stiles rips open every other window in the flat, greedily inhaling the fresh air.  
  
When he comes to the window that was open already, he sees a little piece of paper sticking to the frame.  
  
Stiles grabs it, his stomach fluttering and heart pounding. 

There are letters scribbled on the paper. Curved and neat. And sharp.

  
  
_Don’t stand in my way. Or you will regret it, little wolf whisperer. This is not your fight._

Stiles feels sick when he sees the little smiley face in a corner of the paper. He feels sick, but there is also rage. Slowly building up and intensifying. He folds the piece of paper and puts it into the pocket of his pants.

In the distance, he can hear sirens approaching.


	6. Chapter 6

No matter how many windows Stiles opens, the stink of smoke doesn’t fade.  
  
He gets rid of his once blue couch, the fabric blackened and the backrest skeletal. It is nothing more than a carcass now.

Stiles sits on the floor, leans his back against the wall, and surrounds himself with information about the Argents. It is best to know your enemy after all.

 _Enemy._ For a moment, he almost startles at the strong word. But it is true. Angela, no, _Kate_ , made it personal. She made it personal even before she set his couch on fire. She tried to trick him, tried to get to him and inside his mind. And now, now that she knows Stiles knows about her, she is trying to scare him off. But he won't back away. Oh no. Never. Stiles grimly stares at the newspaper articles, the book pages and images scattered on the floor.

The Argents are a century old hunter family. They have been hunting the Supernatural forever. And they were good at it. Damn good. Hunters all across the world asked them for help and guidance. The Argents were feared among Supernaturals and humans alike, known to be ruthless and thorough in their hunting.  
  
However, even the Argents had to relent under society's pressure. The great matriarch Constance Maria Argent herself signed the treaties and the whole family gave up hunting, now only offering advice and help in difficult situations, like with “problematic” Supernaturals. However, there is one Argent who refuses to accept the new world order.

Gerard Argent.

Stiles knows the name. Everyone does. It is usually uttered like a curse. Gerard is downright hateful. He is also old and sick with lung cancer which doesn’t prevent him from still spreading his hate in the public.

Stiles can’t believe Gerard is still sometimes invited to tv discussions and events. Why do they still want to give someone a stage who is always spitting his werewolf racism everywhere, not caring about any other points or opinions? It's pointless. And everytime Gerard has the chance to talk, he gains more followers.

Kate is Gerard’s daughter and obviously absorbed all her father’s hate. She seems to think she has to fulfill his mission now. However, she seems to be more careful. There are not many mentions of her anywhere. Stiles has to dig deep to find as much as a report about her winning a trophy for rifle shooting at her school.

No one has seen Gerard’s other child, his older son Christopher, for years. Maybe he has had enough of his father’s indoctrination, Stiles muses.

He touches the crumpled piece of paper resting in his pocket thoughtfully, a shiver running over his spine. Kate knows he knows. There is only one possible explanation for that. Someone at the center is helping Kate. The thought makes Stiles feel cold to the core. But it makes sense. Someone like Kate, someone with her background, certainly has a lot of people on her pay-roll.

When Peter was talking about Kate, his eyes had spit hatred and rage, but there was also a certain kind of fear in them. Stiles is sure he didn’t miss it.

Kate is dangerous. Really really dangerous. In many different ways.

To stop someone like her is difficult. And risky.

Stiles can’t go to the police. They won’t believe him when he blames Kate for the Hale fire. Hell, maybe Kate even has police officers on her side, who knows?! And the only other witness is Peter, a werewolf who has lost his pack and who would be seen as mentally unstable. That’s not a good initial position for winning a case.

Stiles chews on his lower lip furiously. Well. He has to do _something_ .

Fact is, his options are all either pointless, bad or impossible.

He can’t just break Peter out of the center. There would be a manhunt. They would probably think Peter kidnapped Stiles or something. Stiles isn’t eager to be a fugitive. He still has plans for his future after all. Besides, Peter tearing Kate into little pieces would be poison for the brittle peace between humans and Supernaturals. It would hit the current proceedings like a bomb.

No. There has to be another way. The best thing would be to get Kate to confess. Stiles is sure Kate is one of those people who love to hear themselves talking about their supposed cleverness and evilness. He has to get her to talk. And once she talks, he has to catch it on tape.

So ... He needs a bugging device. Stiles briefly thinks about asking Parrish for one. But Parrish would get suspicious without a doubt. No. He can’t tell anyone who knows him about this. They would be in danger too. He has to somehow steal a device. But how ...

“Did my uncle shift back?” 

“Oh my God!” Stiles yells and reaches for his chest. He feels like his heart has just faltered a few beats. “Derek!”

The werewolf is crouching on the window sill, frowning at Godzilla who is barking at him so frantically, he seems about to hyperventilate.

“Oh my God,” Stiles repeats, scooping Godzilla up and getting him out of the room, closing the door before his brave but tiny dog can come back in and lunge at Derek to protect Stiles. “What the hell! You can’t appear out of nowhere like that!”

“Did Peter shift back?” Derek repeats his question, looking quite unimpressed by Stiles’ words and Godzilla's ongoing shrill barking coming from the hallway. “His packbond feels different.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, he did. Uh. Come inside. We have to talk,” Stiles rambles urgently, closing the window behind Derek after the werewolf jumps inside. He chooses to ignore the question how Derek found him for now.

Derek sniffs the air and grimaces. “Is something burning in your kitchen?” he asks.

Stiles sighs. “No. Kate Argent set my couch on fire to send me a personal warning.” 

“Kate?" Derek hisses, his eyes glowing red. “She’s here? She dared to come back? I am going to find her and rip her throat out …” He turns around while still talking, apparently ready to jump out of the window.  
  
“No,” Stiles says firmly, and Derek stops, looking back at him scowling. “You _can’t_. The situation is fragile, Derek. There are a lot of werewolf haters trying to get back to the old world order at the moment. They would love you for killing a woman they think is innocent, Derek. Don’t do it. Not … not now at least. Also … She probably counts on you or Peter to do something rash. I bet she is prepared. We have to be smarter than that.”  
  
Derek frowns. “What are you planning?”

“I want her to confess what she did,” Stiles says grimly. “I want to hear it from her mouth and I am going to record it. And then we are going to get her imprisoned. Imagine,” he quickly says when Derek scowls at that, clearly not satisfied with that scenario, “imagine her sitting in a tiny cell for the rest of her life, agonizing over her failed plans and over the fact, that there is peace and that it will go on. Isn't that much better?”

Derek nods carefully. “Fine. But I don’t know what Peter will say to that. I’m sure he wants to kill her. He wants revenge. Do you know what the Left Hand of a pack is?”

“Yes," Stiles says, already remembering the page he read the information on.  
  
“Then you know what they do. They eliminate threats. They keep the pack safe. Peter feels like he couldn’t do that. He feels like he failed. And Kate is the thorn in his eye that will remind him of his supposed failure for the rest of his life. I have no idea if he would agree on letting her live,” Derek explains quietly.

Stiles nods. “I know. I will talk to him. But first … I need a bugging device.” He looks at Derek consideringly, thinking about how the werewolf could help. Oh. Stiles grins. “You can help.”  
  
Derek frowns. “I can?”

“Oh yes," Stiles nods, "I need a distraction. Can you be a distraction?”

Derek shrugs. “I can try.”  
  


* * *

  
Derek is a great distraction. He walks into the station and demands to speak to the Sheriff, letting his eyes gleam for a brief but intense moment that makes every officer gasp.

While Derek rambles something about the fire and evidence he might have found at the house, Stiles sneaks inside without being noticed. He enters the Sheriff’s office, his heart pounding. Once, he thinks, this was my father’s office. The pain is like little pin pricks in his chest. Stiles shoves it aside for now.  
  
Instead, he hurries to find the bugging devices. He curses under his breath when his search seems to take way too long. When he’s discovered inside here, there are going to be a lot of uncomfortable questions. At least, he can still hear Derek talking loudly, so he might still have time. He opens drawers and closes them again with a disappointed huff, searches under a heap of files furtively, until he finally finds a few bugging devices in a drawer with old walkie-talkies. “I’m going to get you, you pyromaniac bitch,” Stiles whispers and smirks, shoving one of the devices into the pocket of his jeans.

If his plan works out, there are certainly going to be questions later too. About how he got one of these. But he’ll think of something.

Stiles sneaks back out of the station on his tiptoes until he is sure no one is going to see him. Then, he walks to the jeep and waits for Derek.  
  


* * *

Stiles takes Derek to the center the next day. The bugging device is still in his pocket, just in case. He made sure the battery is charged.

Peter’s doctor is visibly relieved to see Derek. “Mr. Hale,” he says, shaking Derek’s hand firmly, “It’s good you are here. I believe you inherited the Alpha spark?”

“I did,” Derek says a bit tensely.

“Good. Your uncle is in desperate need of some stability right now. Something grounding. Mr. Stilinski here did a great job with his wolf, but I think it takes a little bit more to improve his mental state.”  
  
“Pack structures,” Derek says curtly. “I’m aware. Sadly, I …I couldn’t bring myself to form a larger pack yet. It’s still …” he stops, swallowing heavily.   
  
“Too soon,” the doctor gently finishes Derek’s sentence and nods. “I understand. I’m sure he will response just fine to you as Alpha for now. But you have to be aware that we can’t break the mountain ash line, it’s too much of a risk …”

“What?” Derek asks tonelessly, and shifts his weight. Stiles immediately notices the change in the atmosphere. Maybe the doctor does too, because he raises a hand and his voice gets even more gentle. “Mr. Hale, I know this isn’t ideal, but I assure you, I just want what’s best for your uncle, and right now, he’s not stable enough to be allowed to leave the room …”  
  
“You think he will snap like an animal as soon as you break the line?” Derek snarls and his eyes gleam briefly. “You’re sure you want what’s best for him? Or do you just want to contain him, because you are scared he will eat you?”

“Derek,” Stiles says quietly, his throat tightening with nervousness.

The doctor sighs. “It’s not like that, Mr. Hale. I am concerned, yes, but it is not because I think your uncle would, uh, _eat_ someone. Please be aware that he did bite one of my nurses and lashed out at another only this morning, because he had a row of nightmares and flashbacks. He’s deeply traumatized and is a danger to himself or others right now. That’s why I can’t allow direct contact. I’m sorry.”

“You really expect me to stand on the other side of a mountain ash barrier?” Derek asks incredulously, his voice shaking with anger. “If you knew anything about werewolves and pack dynamics at all, you wouldn’t suggest that.”  
  
“It is the rule, Mr. Hale. It is important that everyone acts according to them. Especially in the current situation,” the doctor insists sternly.   
  
“Fuck your current situation,” Derek hisses and Stiles flinches a little. He can _feel_ Derek’s anger broiling and is again reminded that the younger werewolf hasn’t had the Alpha spark for long. “My uncle was injured, just shifted from wolf back to human and lost all but one packbond. I need to be close to him, not separated from my only living family member by your stupid anti-werewolf magic!"  
  
The doctor frowns. He looks close to calling for backup that might usher Derek out of the center and Stiles can’t have that. They need to stick together, now that Kate is here and probably eager to kill all of them.

“Derek,” Stiles says firmly and looks at the werewolf, “stop this. Think about Peter. If you keep this up, they won’t let you see him at all.”  
  
Derek still looks furious, but Stiles can see that he is trying to untense his muscles. Derek takes a deep breath. “Alright,” he sighs, “just … take me to him, okay?”

The doctor looks Derk up and down consideringly and then nods. “Follow me.”  
  
  
Peter looks even more tired today than he did the last time Stiles saw him. Tired and drained. There are dark circles under his eyes and he seems half-asleep, blinking up at the ceiling like he is trying hard to stay awake. Which is not surprising considering the fact that Peter knows perfectly fine Kate is way too close.

“We can’t talk to him about you know who,” Stiles tells Derek quietly, before they enter the room. “Not here. If someone is listening …”  
  
Derek nods. “I get it.” His focus is on his uncle, his eyes filled with a distant kind of pain, as if he is remembering something from the past.

Peter startles when they enter and Stiles guesses he was lost in his thoughts - or memories. He tries to sit up, until he realizes there is no threat and sinks back into the pillows. “Derek,” he says with a hint of surprise.

Derek stares for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching. Stiles can tell he wants to close the distance. But he can’t. It makes his own chest ache. “Uncle Peter,” Derek finally says quietly, his voice trembling slightly.

Peter’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “I’m sorry I am such a miserable sight, pup.” 

Derek makes a choked off noise in the back of his throat.

Stiles clears his throat. This is too personal for him to be there. “I guess I leave you two alone for a while. You two sure have a lot to talk about,” he says, but giving Derek one last stern look and then pulling out a piece of paper, writing on it and showing it to Peter.  
  
Peter frowns when he reads the words. _Don’t talk about Kate. I think someone is listening._ But he nods at Stiles. 

Stiles nods back and then leaves the room, closing the door behind him gingerly.  
  
He walks the hallway back, lost in his own thoughts, until someone bumps into him and he looks up, right into the smug face of Kate Argent. His insides turn to ice in the matter of a second.

“Oh. It’s the werewolf whisperer,” Kate says, smiling brightly. She is carrying a laptop and a camera, even a pair of glasses, looking like a real newspaper reporter. “I’m sad we still weren’t able to do that interview …” 

“There never will be an interview with me,” Stiles says coldly. He glances up and sees a camera. Kate and him are standing directly in its field of vision. 

Kate’s smile doesn’t falter at all. “Well. There are plenty of other people working here who _love_ to give me some of their precious time. Like your lovely colleague, what was his name again? Oh, Thomas,” she says and leans a bit closer into his space before continuing talking, her voice a bit subdued but no less cheerful, “by the way, congrats. I heard you helped Peter Hale turning back to human? Didn’t think I would ever see his handsome face again. Well. It’s not as handsome as it was before the fire, right, but well.” She chuckles. 

It takes all of Stiles’ willpower to stay calm. He clenches his jaw and says nothing. 

Kate cocks her head. “Why so quiet now? Cat got your tongue, Stiles?” 

“I know what you are doing,” Stiles whispers, clenching his hands into fists. “I know and you won’t get away with it. I promise.”  
  
Kate arches a brow. “Hm. I have no idea what you’re talking about Stiles. Well. I have work to do now. Have a nice day, sweetheart.” She chuckles and strolls off, her heels clicking on the floor rhythmically. 

Stiles grits his teeth. 

Rage rushes through him like a violent wave. He feels he is shaking.  
  
But he forces that all back. He has to stay rational. Has to think of ways to outsmart her.  
  
If he could get something with her writing on it, that would be great, he figures.  
  
Wait. Didn’t she say Thomas would give her an interview? Stiles thinks. Thomas is … nice. He is an idiot sometimes, but that’s because he likes to follow rules. He isn’t a werewolf hater. He’s been working here for ages, at least he told Stiles so, and he always seems to give his best. Certainly, Thomas wouldn’t want every wolf here to die because of one hateful huntress who can’t get used to the balance, right? 

Right. Stiles decides to give it a try. He knows he hasn’t always been so nice to Thomas, hasn’t agreed on joining him at dinner or for a coffee, but he is sure Thomas still would listen and maybe help.  
  
Stiles directly goes to the closed ward and starts searching for Thomas. He finds the nurse inside the freezer, where he is checking the amount of fresh meat available. It is one of the rare locations at the center without any cameras, which Stiles approves of right now.  
  
He enters the freezer, shivers a bit and closes the door behind him.

"Stiles?" Thomas asks, looking up from his check list, obviously surprised to see him. "What are you doing here?"

“I need your help,” Stiles directly says. 

Thomas arches a brow. “Okay,” he says carefully. “With what?”

And Stiles explains. He hopes he doesn’t ramble too much, but he is glad when he sees Thomas’ eyes going wider with every word, with every mention of Kate Argent. “I see,” Thomas says when Stiles is done and catches his breath. “And I immediately trusted her, huh.”  
  
“Look, if you give her an interview, you could try to get something handwritten from her, okay? Because … She left a note at my flat, when she set my couch on fire …”

“She did what?” Thomas gasps. 

“Yeah … And she left a note. So, if I had something to compare it with, that would be great.”  
  
Thomas sighs. “I … I will try, alright? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”  
  
“Thank you,” Stiles says, relieved. “I have to go now.” He turns and walks towards the door, when Thomas’ voice holds him back, “Wait, Stiles, one more thing.” 

Stiles stops and looks back over his shoulder, opening his mouth to ask, “Yes?”  
  
Only, the word never comes over his lips. Because suddenly, something blunt hits the side of his head and he drops with a choked off yelp, the pain white and hot and unbearable. Stiles lands on his front and groans, the world swaying around him. He tries to get back up, bringing his hands under his shaking body, but then boots step into his field of vision. Thomas’ boots. 

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Thomas says, and there is something really apologizingly in his calm voice. “I swear, this is nothing personal.”  
  
There is a hiss, and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, didn't see that coming ^^'
> 
> Peter and Derek POV in next chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

Derek brings flowers to the graves every few days. White lilies and chrysanthemums.  
  
He spends half an hour just standing there on the graveyard, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, focusing on the emptiness living in his chest where the packbonds used to be. 

When he pays attention to his surroundings, Derek can smell the echo of sadness and heartbreak lingering between the graves. He can hear stifled or open sobs, tears running down faces or a quiet voice praying.  
  
He notices a fresher grave close to his family's one, the earth still loose and light. A bare marble stone stands there, waiting to be inscribed. 

Involuntarily, Derek remembers the funeral. Remembers the row of urns, containing what is left of his family, home, past. Ash. 

He remembers the furtive glances thrown into his direction. The whispers. The pity. 

Derek doesn’t know how he made it back to his apartment that day. The apartment he insisted on having, when his relationship to his mother got more complicated. When he grew restless and wanted to have his privacy, wanted to try to be on his own more.

It was too big for him that night. He was all alone and when he stumbled through the living room, he could suddenly smell a faint hint of Cora, because she napped on his couch only a few days ago. That little detail finally broke him. 

He sobbed the whole night, stunned about how much tears his body was able to produce. He just couldn't stop. Every time it felt like he was finally drained, he remembered a little detail about anyone and started crying all over again. After the crying came the rage. He ripped the couch apart. He threw every book he could find against the wall and shattered the dishes. Eventually, he slumped on the floor in midst of the mess and stared ahead blankly, panting. 

He was surrounded by shards. Fitting. His life was literally laying in shards.

It still is like that.

Derek doesn’t know what he is supposed to do. He stares at the tombstone in front of him and clenches his hands into tight fists. 

The wolf in him knows he should start to form a stable pack. He can’t wander around all alone as an Alpha. He needs more packbonds, needs touch and scenting and someone to care for. The lack of pack makes his wolf restless. 

But Derek can’t. He just can’t. 

How is he supposed to replace the emptiness in his chest with strange bonds? He is sure they will never feel right.

Derek sighs and lowers his head, averting his gaze from the letters on the tombstone that blur in front of his eyes. 

Being alive is agony.

_Why am I still here and you are not._

It is not the first time that he has this thought. It is connected to a neverending guilt. He should have been there. He should have done something. _Anything_. 

Instead, he has been in the stupid apartment, alone, when the packbonds started screaming, making him gasp in shock and pain. He was alone when the Alpha spark found him while he was still hurrying to get to the house. It came to him painfully, forcing its way into him, finding his wolf and permeating them both, bright and sharp. 

Next, the packbonds shattered. One by one, they screamed a last time and vanished. The pain was unbearable. By the time he reached the burning house, Derek was sobbing in fear and pain. He stared at the fire in front of him, stunned and panting. A part of him was hoping it was a nightmare. But he already knew it was real. No nightmare could hurt so much. 

The house was already collapsing when Derek started to search for scents frantically. It was difficult to smell anything else but smoke and ash. He still tried, coughing from the burnt air and shuddering when ash started to fall on him like snow, getting tangled in his hair. By the time he found Peter’s trail he was close to giving up.  
  
Thinking about finding Peter provides a fresh wave of pain. It was horrible to see his uncle like that, while at the same time, it was an unbearable relief to find him alive, to still have this packbond, which was pulsing while every other one had long vanished. 

Derek crouched and pressed his forehead against Peter’s neck, feeling the wolf’s pulse and hearing his shallow breaths. He pulled pain with both hands and the intensity of it made him feel dizzy. Although he wanted nothing more but to close his eyes and forget everything, Derek somehow found the strength to pull his mobile out and call for help. 

He doesn’t even remember how he landed on an uncomfortable plastic chair at the hospital, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. People passing by gave him glances and he figured the news about the fire had already made rounds. Derek stared ahead, not able to catch a single thought, as he waited for news on Peter’s state.  
  
He wasn’t that surprised when they told him Peter didn’t shift back. It was just one blow more.

Derek went back to his destroyed apartment, falling into bed and into a restless slumber. He felt so alone. His wolf was whining for comfort, confused about suddenly having to deal with the weight of the Alpha spark. Derek realised with sudden shock that his mother was dead. His mother. And the last thing they did was snarling at each other, because Talia wasn’t happy about Derek’s choices, because Derek told her he was an adult now and didn’t want to stick with the pack all the time. “Peter isn’t always here either,” he had pointed out. “Peter is Peter,” Talia had said, her eyes flashing briefly, making Derek’s wolf whine with the need to submit. “But you are my son.”

His mother …  
  
He misses her so much. Misses her gentle touch, her familiar scent and her grounding words. 

What would she think of him now? he wonders.

Derek didn’t expect to be Alpha. Laura was the one who prepared to take it. He was fine with being a Beta, he never wanted so much responsibility. So much power. What is he supposed to do with it? 

He wishes Peter would be there. Longs for his advice. His blunt way to call the things by their name. 

Peter had always encouraged Derek to be more independent, to do what he wanted. He didn’t laugh about the song lyrics Derek wrote, or about him learning how to play the piano. 

And Peter had been right about the world.  
  
It will never be a safe place. Despite the people who try to help, who say there can be a way to live side by side in peace, there will always be the other people. The ones who only ever see what they call abnormal. They see that Derek can shift into a wolf, a predator. That’s enough of a reason to hunt him. 

And Peter has always reminded him of that fact. No matter how good things seemed to get, no matter how much Talia talked about peace and safety and common sense, he always warned Derek not to be too trustful. 

“They won’t stop,” he told Derek after an hour of sparring, not even slightly out of breath while Derek was sitting in the grass, panting. “There are hunter families, century old, who see hunting the Supernatural as their birthright. And they won’t just stop, only because of a stupid paper they have to sign to calm down the public.”  
  
“But hunting is now officially illegal and they said it would be punished,” Derek protested, remembering his mother’s words. “Why would they risk prison or worse? They will have to change with the world, they can’t stay the same.”  
  
Peter sighed. “Oh pup. The world has always been a messed up place. And it always will be. I’m not saying there isn’t kindness, that there aren’t people who are good and seriously try to change things. But there will always be the other side and they will always have support. There will be the police officer who saw a feral werewolf out of his mind and now turns a blind eye when a hunter commits a crime. Or the judge who thinks werewolves are abnormalities and a danger to humanity - so he chooses to ignore important evidence. There will always be people like these, so we have to stay wary. You have to know how to defend yourself, how to fight if you have to. It’s been like this for ages, and it won’t magically change from one day to the other.” 

And oh, how right he was with these words. 

Now, their whole family is dead, they are the only ones left and Peter is a shadow of the man Derek knew.  
  
The world is a messed up place indeed. Especially as long as it has people like Kate Argent in it. 

Derek shivers when a breeze blows across the graveyard. He can feel it in his bones. 

He finally turns away from the grave and leaves, approaching the forest. His wolf stirs when Derek slowly takes off his clothes and folds them, laying them on a tree stump. He needs to run. Just for a while. Needs to run and forget. The shift comes fast and smooth, the wolf eager to do something. 

He shakes out his fur and raises his head, inhaling the forest’s scent. Earthy and fresh. He runs. 

* * *

Derek shifts back when he feels Peter’s packbond stirring and pulsing differently. He almost immediately knows that his uncle changed back to human. The thought is making his heart beat faster.  
  
When he finally is at the center with Stiles, and the doctor tells him he won’t be able to touch Peter, Derek almost shifts back again. He can feel the prick of claws and fur under his skin, can feel the wolf coming dangerously close to the surface, until Stiles talks to him and calms him down. Stiles’ voice is … something. It reaches far into Derek somehow, causing his wolf to listen and relax. It is remarkable. If he wasn’t so eager to see Peter, Derek would think about it more. But not now. 

To see Peter is a shock. Seeing him as a wolf was painful, but seeing him as a human now is almost unbearable. Derek has to convince himself it is real. He lost so much, but there is his uncle. He’s alive. The wolf in Derek stirs and whines, reaching out for Peter’s wolf and recoiling because of the mountain ash barrier. Derek grits his teeth and forces the fresh upcoming anger back down. He doesn’t want Peter to notice how agitated he is. 

Derek barely notices Stiles leaving the room, too focused on Peter and the fact that his uncle looks like he would fall asleep every moment. Half his face is covered in bandages and he’s all sharp edges instead of muscles, his cheeks sunken and ribs too pronounced. 

Peter smiles weakly under Derek’s wandering gaze. He moves to sit up against the pillows slowly, grimacing. “I really have no idea why they even bother with that mountain ash,” he tells Derek dryly, “it’s not as if I could lunge at them. Even if I wanted to. It causes enough energy to keep the stupid wolf at bay.” 

Derek wishes he could slam through the mountain ash. Not only because it is undoubtedly like an echo of the mountain ash line Peter tried to break through when their family burned, but also because he knows direct contact would help his uncle heal faster. Derek wants to pull pain. But more than everything, he wants to touch. 

Peter looks at him like he knows. “Well, who knows, if I behave long enough, maybe they will erase it,” he shrugs, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “How are you, pup?” 

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m … I have no idea what to do with the Alpha spark,” he admits. 

Peter hums. “You do what it tells you to do,” he says bluntly. “You find a pack and make it strong. That’s especially important now,” he arches a brow for emphasization, but Derek already knows why. Kate … They don’t know what her next move is. Or when she will start to play. 

“You have to survive, Derek,” Peter continues, voice firm, “Otherwise, our family will be wiped out completely and I … I can’t stand that thought. Don’t let me die with this.”  
  
“You won’t die,” Derek says, startled. His insides seem to turn into ice-water at Peter’s words. He can't bury the rest of his family. He can't.

Peter shakes his head. “I will hunt down Kate, no matter what. I will live until I get to feel her heartbeat under my claws. And then, then I will tear out her throat,” he says matter of factly, apparently not caring that Stiles said they shouldn’t talk about Kate here. His eyes gleam blue briefly and Derek shivers involuntarily, remembering Stiles’ words about Kate and justice. “I don’t think I will survive that. Not with how many helpers Kate apparently has,” Peter adds and leans back into the pillows with a groan. 

Derek doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s shaken. Not only by the things Peter said, but also by the realization that Peter has changed so much. He can feel it. Something inside Peter has been shattered and now sets itself together in a wrong way.

Derek is not sure what to do with that realiziation. 

* * *

Derek looks exhausted.

Peter isn’t surprised. Carrying the Alpha spark takes a toll, especially without any kind of preparation. At least, he taught Derek how to fight and how to remain controlled in certain kinds of situations. He has no doubt that Derek can make it through this. 

He isn’t sure about himself. Doesn’t even know if he wants to make it through. He just wants to live long enough to hear Kate’s last breath. His wolf agrees with a vicious growl. He is restless, still clawing at Peter’s mental walls. It is exhausting to keep him back, but as soon as he is out of here, he won’t have to hold the wolf back anymore. He will let go and let his instincts take over, let them take him to Kate.

He can feel that Derek is conflicted. That he is still shaken by the loss they suffered and not sure about how to go on. But that is going to change. 

Just as he is about to tell Derek what to do, his chest suddenly constricts and his wolf stops growling, going silent. Peter frowns. He closes his eyes to focus and feels a pulse of fear and pain. It is not his connection to Derek, no, that bond is feeling more calm and stable. No, it’s … 

“Stiles?” Peter asks, surprised. What … 

“What about Stiles?” Derek asks, frowning. 

“I … I think I feel him,” Peter murmurs, feeling the pulse again. This time, it is more insistent. “I have a connection to him.” 

Derek’s eyes widen in disbelief. “You have a bond with Stiles? How did that happen?!” 

Yes. How? How did he connect to a human who just happened to work here? 

Peter doesn’t know how to feel about this. But the more pressing thing is that … “I think he is in danger,” he swallows. “He is scared and in pain.” 

“Kate?” Derek asks, a growl escaping his throat. 

“I don’t know,” Peter shakes his head. He gets rid of the blanket and pulls the stupid needle out of his arm that provides him whatever kind of nutritions they think are good for werewolves. “I have to get out of here.” 

“I can’t break the mountain ash barrier,” Derek says, the crease between his eyes deepening. “And no one here is going to help us. Worse, we don’t know who is working with Kate. How do you want to …”

“We’ll have to try to break through it together,” Peter says. It is stupid and he knows it, but he can’t help himself. The pulse of Stiles’ bond is getting unbearably urgent. For the first time in a long while, Peter forgets about Kate and the pleasing pictures of ripping her apart. Instead, every cell of his mind focuses on Stiles and the urge to help him. Because … Stiles was there. He was kind and patient and grounding. Stiles doesn’t deserve to get hurt because he stumbled into this mess. “You are an Alpha, Derek. There have been Alphas who managed to break through a mountain ash barrier, with my help …”

Derek looks startled. “I … I don’t think I can do it,” he says. 

“You have to try,” Peter breathes, trying to fight the slowly building anger down. He can’t allow the raging wolf to take over just now. He needs a clear head. “Come on, Derek …” 

“We need someone else,” Derek insists. “We …”  
  


The door opens. 

  
Peter freezes. Derek immediately flashes his eyes red and growls, turning around to face the intruder, to tear him apart if necessarily. 

A man comes in. He smells of leather and faintly of gun oil. He stares at the two werewolves with crystal blue eyes and a slight frown on his face. He raises both hands slowly, in a defensive gesture. “I’m a friend,” he promises, his voice subdued but of course perfectly audible to the wolves. “I’m here to help.” 

Derek doesn’t stop growling. 

Peter frowns and tries to get more of the man’s scent. It is hard to focus his senses, even harder to make them cross the mountain ash barrier, but he manages. He gets a good whiff. And freezes. “Christopher?” he asks, incredulously. 

The man nods, dropping his hands. “It’s me.”  
  
Derek stops growling and makes a confused noise. “Christopher? You’re Christopher Argent? Are you here to finish your sister’s job?” he spats, the growl almost about to return. 

Christopher Argent looks from Peter to Derek and back. “Like I said. I’m here to help,” he repeats calmly. 

Peter’s wolf is raging so violently, he has to mentally close another heavy door to contain him. “Why?” he asks. “Why would you help us? You disappeared years ago and just now you decide to return and help us? Why?” And you better have a good explanation, he adds silently. 

Chris remains calm. “Your family saved my life back then. I owe you. I broke with my father and his ways years ago. I broke with the whole hunter community. I decided to stay away from it all, tried to lead a normal life. Then I heard what Kate did and … I can’t let her do it again. Now … will you let me help, or not? I figure you don’t have many friends here, right? So, the choice is yours. Will you trust me, or will you rather try to fight the enemies all by yourself?” he asks, raising his brows. 

Derek looks at Peter questioningly. 

Peter realises it is his choice to make. He hesitates. 


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles wakes up with a pounding head and dry mouth. 

For a long hazy moment, he thinks he is still sleeping and trapped in some horribly realistic kind of nightmare. But then, everything comes back and Stiles realises he has been kidnapped. By his colleague. Thomas. Stiles’ stomach sinks. He can’t believe he has been so careless. Walking right into that freezer, although knowing Kate has someone working for her at the center … It was stupid.

Immediately, Stiles starts to worry about the wolves. Who is going to help them now? Peter is trapped. Derek would have to fight alone. 

Stiles shivers. Wherever he is, it is freezing. He looks around and sees bare white walls, the wallpaper brittle. The ceiling is grey and littered with cracks. Looks like an old empty warehouse. All Stiles can hear here are his own frantic breaths and the pounding of his heart, echoing in his ears. 

The next thing he notices is that he can’t move an inch. His hands are tied behind his back and thick ropes are wrapped around his ankles, legs and stomach, binding him to the hard wooden chair he is sitting on. 

Stiles remembers something he read once. Something about tensing and untensing the muscles to loosen the ropes. He tries it a few times, without any noticeable effect. 

_I’m so fucked_ , Stiles thinks and his fear intensifies, starting to suffocate him. Suddenly, he thinks about Godzilla and that no one is going to feed his poor little dog, and he has to swallow down the first tears. _Fuck._

“Ah. You’re awake.” The words cut through the silence like a knife and Stiles flinches. He looks up and sees Thomas approaching, a bottle of water in his hand. 

“Water?” Thomas shakes the bottle and arches a brow. 

Stiles blinks. He licks his lips which are as dry as his throat. “Uh. Yes, please?” he croaks. 

Thomas nods and opens the bottle, holding it to Stiles lips. Stiles gulps the water down greedily, though it’s cold and hurts his stomach. When Stiles is done, Thomas steps back and puts the water bottle on an empty table. He leans against it and crosses his arms, looking down at Stiles with a slight frown. 

Stiles feels comfortable under that gaze. He feels like he’s an insect under a magnifying glass. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks carefully. 

Thomas sighs. “Like I said, Stiles, this is nothing personal. I don’t want to hurt you more than necessary. We just need you for the next step. You’re just … something like a plot device.” 

“You mean, I’m bait,” Stiles says dryly. 

Thomas smiles. “You’ve always been fast. If you want to call it that, then yes, you’re bait.” He looks at his watch. “The others are going to be here soon. Kate will be pleased you joined us sooner than expected.” 

Stiles throat clenches. “Are you even aware you’re working for a mass murderer? Someone who killed innocent children?” he asks.

Thomas snorts. “Oh, Stiles. You’re so fond of your precious wolves, aren’t you. You can’t see them doing anything wrong. Kate might use drastic measures, but at least, she sees the real world. Wake up, Stiles. Humans and Supernaturals will never live side by side peacefully. Kate is going to wake people up. It’s not about killing every single one of them. It’s just about controlling them better. It was stupid to ban hunting. We _need_ hunters. They protect us, who can't protect ourselves.”

Stiles can't believe it. “But … that’s exactly what Kate is about! She wants to kill them all. She has fun doing it! I don’t understand. You have been working there with me so long. You have treated Peter’s injuries. You … How can you be on her side?!”

Thomas’ eyes narrow. “I have my reasons.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No matter what your reasons are, they can’t justify working with a serial killer. Thomas, Kate burned Peter’s family. Children, humans, werewolves. She makes no difference! She trapped them in the basement and burned them alive. You can’t possibly support that!”

For a single moment, so volatile Stiles almost misses it, Thomas’ calm facade falters and a hint of uncertainty appears on his face. It disappears as fast it came, but Stiles saw it. He saw it. And it gives him hope. Thomas is not a killer. Stiles is sure of that.  
  
He wants to say more, wants to try to get some sense into the guy, but the next moment, Thomas glares and grits his teeth, anger replacing the calmth he’s shown the last few minutes. “You have no idea what I have been through because of these monsters,” he snarls. “You have no idea!”

“Then tell me,” Stiles says quietly.

Thomas hesitates. But finally, he sighs in defeat. “I like you, Stiles. I always did. So, I am going to tell you. Because I really do hope it will change your mind.”

He takes a deep breath. And starts to talk, his voice heavy.

“I was ten. I was ten and it was a full moon. We were camping. My parents, my little brother Jamie and I. It was a nice evening. We had marshmallows and sandwiches. My Dad played the guitar and we sang songs. That was probably the reason the wolf found us in the first place. It was blue eyed and huge. A dark shadow, with fangs and claws. It killed my parents first. Tore them apart in front of my eyes. I grabbed my brother and tried to run, but it was faster, of course. It lunged at us and ripped my brother from my arms. I could only watch. And listen. And wait for my own death. The wolf approched me, growling in my ear. But just before it could kill me too, there was a shot and the monster slumped. A hunter came out of the woods and helped me. He took care I came into a good foster family. He visited me and taught me what I really needed to know about werewolves. The guy's name was Gerard Argent."

Stiles briefly closes his eyes. _Goddammit_ ...

"I still have nightmares, Stiles. I still see and hear it all. And it happens everywhere, to other families. They all snap, Stiles. They are like wolves in a herd of sheep. Once they start, they will always continue. They are abominations. They don't belong here. Gerard is right. Kate is too. And ... well, sometimes you need to do bad things to create something good, right? I won't kill anyone, but ... I will help them to reach their goal. People have to wake up. Like I did."

"Thomas," Stiles breathes, his chest clenching. He's hurting for Thomas, who now has tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry this happened to you. What attacked you and your family, that was most likely a feral Omega, a wolf without pack, who slowly went insane. But they are not all monsters. There are enough human monsters in the world too, aren't there? And still, not all humans do monstreous things. Peter and the other Hales, they tried to maintain the peace. They only wiped out threats to it like these feral wolves. They just wanted a good life for their family. Can't you see that?"

Thomas scowls. "Maybe I did in the past. But I see clearer now. You won't talk me out of this, Stiles. I spent so much time in that stupid center, around all these mongrels. All for this night."

"Don't do this, Thomas," Stiles says, aware he's begging now. "Let me show you the truth. If only you would talk to Peter, or Derek, or ..."

"Just shut up," Thomas snarls. But his voice does shake. He's not 100% sure about this, Stiles can feel it.

He opens his mouth to say more, but then a door opens with an ugly screech and someone steps in. 

Thomas looks up and swallows. Stiles knows immediately, who he is looking at.

“There he is, our werewolf whisperer,” Kate Argent says, stepping into Stiles’ field of vision and smiling. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay?”  
  
“Nope. Would never recommend it. It’s cold and the service sucks,” Stiles says dryly.

Kate just laughs. “I like your sense of humor. Don’t worry Stiles. You might be slightly uncomfortable right now, but that will be over soon. You just have to be patient for a while, and …” Kate’s phone rings. She frowns and reaches for it. “Yes? What do you mean they are gone? How could that happen?!” she snarls into the phone. She doesn’t look happy at all. In fact, she looks downright pissed.

Stiles smirks. He really likes to see that sour expression on her face. He likes it until she ends the call, huffs and glares down at him. “Change of plans,” she says coldly.

Stiles shivers.   
  


* * *

  
Christopher Argent swore to never come back to Beacon Hills.  
  
Too many memories are connected to this place. Too many pictures. And feelings.

The echo of pain lingers here.

It started when they moved there. When he was nine and already knew everything his father wanted him to know about werewolves.

“Whatever they tell you, don’t believe it,” he said. “The wolves might seem nice. It might seem like all they want is a peaceful life among us. But it’s a lie. It’s delusion. They are just waiting. For a moment to attack. For a moment to enslave humanity. That’s why we can’t stop learning how to fight them. We have to stay wary. One day, we will be humanity’s last hope, because everyone else was too stupid to see the truth. To see these abominations for what they really are, monsters. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Don’t you fall for it, son. Never fall for it.”

Chris grew up with these words. He grew up with secretly being taught how to be a hunter of the Supernatural.

And when he was sixteen, his father didn’t care about the new rules. He didn’t care about the treaties the Argents signed. He decided to follow tradition and brought Chris into the forest. “Two days and two nights,” he said, handing his son a single silver knife. “You survive, you’ll be a man.”

Chris took the knife and watched his father leave.

The night was freezing. Chris couldn’t feel his fingers when he tried to make a fire. He was shivering uncontrollable. The wind was raging and smothered Chris’ pathetic fire. It was hopeless. Chris sobbed. He was scared. He was scared because he knew his father would be disappointed. And when Gerard was disappointed, he became violent.

Chris wrapped his arms around himself and just hoped he would survive the cold of the night. He just had to force himself to stay awake. He didn’t know how much time had passed, when he heard the noises. Loud growling and shuffling steps, making the snow scrunch noisily.

Chris’ heart seemed to miss a few beats. He looked up and saw eyes glowing blue in the dark. The werewolf approached and it was huge. A huge black shadow, growling and snarling. Chris swallowed. He reached for his knife, the only defense he had and prepared himself.

But before the beast could lunge at him, there was another growl and a wolf jumped out from between the trees, bumping into the shadow hard which roared in rage. Chris watched entranced, as the two werewolves rolled over the forest floor, snapping and hissing and scratching.

It seemed to take ages until the shadow gave a whine and slumped. The victorious wolf raised its head, blood dripping from gritted fangs. It glared at Chris and he half-heartedly raised his knife, his fingers numb and his body still shivering from both fear and cold. He didn't understand what was going on, but he would at least try to defend himself. He was an Argent after all. The wolf eyed him for another moment and suddenly howled.

After a moment, two people step onto the clearing. Two women. The eyes of one of them flared red and Chris knew he was dead. He dropped the knife and prepared himself for the inevitable. The women approached him, but instead of growling and attacking, one of them crouched and put a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “What are you doing here, in the middle of the forest, in the cold?” she asked gently.

Chris swallowed down surprise. He tried to talk, but his teeth were clattering. Finally, he managed to stutter out, “My father. I … I have to, to prove my-myself.”

The women looked at each other somewhat knowingly. They seemed to have a silent conversation. Chris watched them anxiously, so focused on them, he didn’t notice the wolf coming closer, until warm breath hit his neck and fur brushed his back, instantly warming him up. He gasped.

“Get up,” the woman with the red eyes told him. “You can warm up at our house.”

Chris hesitated.

The woman seemed to notice his confliction. She smiled. “Don’t be stupid. Think for yourself. Two things I hope you are going to think about eventually. What’s your name?”

“Christopher,” he whispered.

“Come on, Christopher. You need rest and a cup of tea,” the woman said.

Chris sighed and got up on unsteady feet, grateful when the wolf steadied him. He suddenly noticed his hand was buried in warm fur and something inside him clicked. “Who are you?” 

“Talia Hale. This is my daughter Laura,” she nodded at the younger woman who was watching them closely, “And the wolf is my brother, Peter. You are an Argent, aren’t you?”

Chris nodded nervously.

“It's alright, Christopher. Come now, it’s going to snow again soon. It’s in the air. You don’t need to tell your father about this, if you don’t want to,” Talia said, walking away. The wolves followed and after a moment of hesitance, Chris did too.

That night, he slept in a house full of wolves and he felt … safe. It was strange. After everything his father told him, it felt surreal to see this pack being a family, being so normal, so welcoming. It was almost too much. They told him the wolf that almost attacked him was a feral Omega they had been chasing after for quite a while, because it was causing troubles on their territory. “We only kill when we have to,” Talia explained. “Sometimes, it is necessary to make sure the peace remains stable. Because, that’s what we want. Peace.”

Chris believed her.

Much later, he was sure that night was the trigger for his slow but consistent path that led him away from Gerard.  
  
He visited the Hales sometimes, helped them with problems and talked to them about the developments. He learned so much more about werewolves. True things.

But he couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills. This life on the edge, between the Hales and his hateful father, was shattering him. He left. He left and settled down far away, laying down his weapons and trying to lead a normal life.

Until the fire happened.

Chris knew instantly, who did it. He didn’t want to believe it, because a part of him loved his little sister. But he knew.

And now he knows he has to do something. He can’t continue to ignore what his family is about to destroy.

He looks at Peter, at the burns on his face, healing too slowly because of the wolfsbane that was in the smoke and the flames, and he knows this has to stop. He looks down and destroys the mountain ash line with his boot.

“We shouldn’t wait too long,” he says, while Derek tests if the barrier really is gone. “I know what she is planning. Got the details from one of her henchmen I managed to question. It was supposed to happen tonight. She wanted to make you go crazy and catch on camera how you kill someone,” he tells Peter who scowls. “And after that, she would have burned the building down, making it look like an accident.”

“Well,” Peter says, slowly getting up, the hospital gown loose on his thin body, “that’s her speciality, as we already know.”

Derek frowns. “I don’t understand. What is Stiles’ role in all of this?”

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t know that either. I don’t know Stiles. Is he someone special?”

Derek and Peter look at each other, seemingly having a silent communication. Finally, Peter says hesitantly, “He is a human working here. I seem to have a connection to him. I can feel him. It seems like my wolf bonded to him while I couldn’t shift back.”

“Maybe Kate thinks if she threatens him, or hurts him, that will be enough to trigger the wolf to take control and go feral,” Derek says quietly.

Peter growls. “I won’t let her. Stiles doesn’t deserve this. He’s just a kind guy who wanted to help and landed in a mess because of us.”

Chris clears his throat. “Okay. You two go and find Stiles. I stay here to make sure no fire happens tonight.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Derek nods.

“The problem is, that I don’t know exactly where Kate is going to be. Either she comes here because she wants to see the building go up in flames, or she is with Stiles, and she might not be alone,” Chris warns.  
  
Peter’s eyes narrow and flare blue briefly. “Oh, don’t you worry. It doesn’t matter where she is and who is with her. Actually, I would prefer to find her wherever Stiles is. Because then, this is going to be her last night.”

Derek looks at Chris and arches a brow. “You don’t have a problem with that? She’s your sister.”

Chris sighs and looks away, trying to suppress memories that want to come up. Memories of happier times … Once, long ago, they were innocent children. “She has to be stopped. If this is the only way … I can’t stop you. And I can’t take your right to avenge your family,” he tells Peter. “But I won’t watch it. Go now. Kate is not the only one with a payroll. I paid someone a huge amount of money so the cameras won’t catch you on your way out, but you’ll have to be quick.”

The two werewolves nod and leave the room. Chris looks after them for a moment, his heart heavy. He sighs and sits down, waiting for whatever is going to happen next. 

* * *

  
Peter raises his head and inhales the fresh air greedily. It is a mild night and the stars are perfect. After being trapped in closed rooms for so long, his wolf yearns for a run. But now is not the time. Now, he has to focus on finding Stiles. He quickly puts on the clothes they stole from a room. They are too big, but they will do for now.

“It’s a good thing Kate doesn’t know Chris is helping us,” Derek says. “This might have gone very differently if he hadn’t showed up.”  
  
Peter nods. “I’m glad he didn’t let Gerard corrupt him further. He chose this way for himself and I respect him for it.” He makes a noise of approval when Derek brushes shoulders with him, the contact almost too much after so much time of loneliness. Everything inside of him is yearning for a familiar touch and scenting. He allows himself to briefly rub his cheek against Derek's, but then he focuses back on the fact that this night might very well end in a lot of blood.

“Can you find Stiles?” Derek asks.

“I think so. I’ll follow the bond. It would be easier if I’d shift, but I don’t trust myself and the wolf right now. I can’t lose control before I find Kate,” Peter says. He closes his eyes and focuses on the fresh, faintly pulsing bond in his chest. It is still vibrating with fear, but there is also a certain hint of defiance. Peter likes it.

He starts to walk and Derek follows. Peter’s wolf is restless, consumed by the anticipation of tearing Kate Argent apart. _Soon_ , Peter thinks. _Soon. But Stiles has to be safe first. I won’t let him get hurt._

Right when he has the thought, the bond flares with pain. Peter hisses and the wolf roars, jumping forward. He feels the prick of fur under his skin, feels his claws coming out without him wanting it. “Fuck,” he gasps, bending forward. Derek reaches for him, his voice worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Stiles … He’s in pain.” Kate … Kate must know that Derek and Peter left the center. And now she is hurting Stiles. “I will rip her throat out,” Peter growls, pushing the wolf back and panting with the effort.

Derek still sounds worried when he says, “Don’t do anything reckless, Peter. We don’t know how many of them are there. We are only two.”

“I know,” Peter snarls, focusing on the bond again. At least, the pain is gone now. He walks on. His body aches, the wounds on his face pulse faintly, but he reminds himself, that every step brings him closer to revenge, closer to oblivion, and that makes him move faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tension rises. We almost reached the great finale :D 
> 
> Are you rooting for Peter's revenge or do you think Kate should spent the rest of her life in prison, rotting for her sins?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for violence, torture and character death (though it is one that many people were waiting for, so ...)

[Now]

The water turns pink in the matter of seconds. Stiles scrubs his hands almost violently. He sniffs and looks up into the bathroom mirror, startling when he sees his eyes looking back at him.

They are wide and red-rimmed. Tired and hyper-aware at the same time. There is a splotch of blood right above his right eyebrow. Stiles angrily rubs it away and goes back to scrubbing his hands under the cold hard stream.

The water is still pink. Stiles watches as it flows into the drain. He looks at his skin and is relieved, when he sees the blood is almost gone. There is still a lot under his fingernails, but he’s on it. He has time now.

 _It is kind of strange_ , Stiles thinks while working, his fingers slowly numbening. _It is kind of strange, that I am so calm and … well, collected._ _The things I have seen today, the things I did … I should be crying. Or screaming. Yet, here I am, calmly washing my hands, preparing myself for what’s next.  
_

Stiles can’t suppress the hiccup-like chuckle escaping his throat. _What_ comes next?

He doesn’t actually know. No one can know. They are all waiting.

After what seems like ages but was probably only twenty minutes, Stiles feels cleaner and turns the water off. He walks down the stairs, towards Deaton’s living room, rubbing his cold wrinkled hands on his pants.

Derek looks up when Stiles enters. The werewolf sits on the chair beside the table, on which they placed Peter's still body, like he did for the last two hours, keeping watch.

"Any changes?” Stiles asks, pulling another chair to the table and sitting down.

Derek shakes his head. He reaches out and puts his hand on Peter’s chest. After a moment, black lines crawl up Derek’s hand, wrist and arm. Stiles has seen this a few times now. It still stuns him.

He looks at Peter’s face and swallows around the lump in his throat. He does the only thing he can do now: He waits. And remembers.

  
  


[Back then]

  
  


“This is not right,” Thomas says tightly, wide eyes flickering from Kate to Stiles and back. “This … You said, he is bait. You didn’t say anything about hurting him!”

Kate glares at Thomas. If looks could kill, Thomas would have dropped like a stone, Stiles thinks and shivers.

“I told you, Thomas, sometimes you have to do things you don’t like, in order to reach your goals,” Kate says coldly. “Sometimes, you have to make your hands dirty. This world forces us to.”  
  
“But … Stiles is human,” Thomas says incredulously, “he is not one of them!”

“I would say I told you so, but …” Stiles murmurs.

“Shut up,” Kate tells him sharply. All her false kindness is gone now. She focuses back on Thomas, clearly trying to soften her voice a bit for him. “Look, Thomas, something went wrong. Someone helped them to get out of the center …”

 _Good_ , Stiles thinks relieved. Great. At least they won’t be trapped there, won’t be surprised by whatever it was Kate planned for them before this clusterfuck.

“ … and now two pissed off werewolves are most probably on the way to us. One of them is an Alpha. You know how strong they can be, even with a small pack. Peter might be injured and weakened, but he is filled with rage and has been a Left Hand for a long time, he will fight like a Berserker. So, we have to think ahead, Thomas.”

“But we are way more people. There is a group of experienced hunters out there, you don’t really think two werewolves could kill them all?”

Kate shrugs. “I don’t take any chances, Thomas. Now, are you on my side, or not?”

Thomas looks at Stiles and swallows heavily.

“You don’t have to do this,” Stiles says, staring at Thomas grimly. “Just think for yourself and don't listen to this …”

He’s cut off when Kate hits him. It is a sudden and sharp slap in the face that makes Stiles’ head snap to the side. He gasps. His ears start to ring and his face feels hot. He instinctively wants to reach up, but the ropes keep him from moving.

Stiles glares up at Kate and wants to yell an insult that’s already on his tongue, but suddenly, he feels a pulse in his chest. It feels like … rage.

He frowns.

“I told you to shut up!” Kate snarls at him.

“Tell me what you are going to do,” Thomas says and swallows. “What you want me to do.” He looks more determined now. Stiles’ stomach sinks.

Kate smiles. “It’s simple, darling. Don’t worry.” 

* * *

Stiles still occasionally wonders if this is real. Never in his life he’d think he would end up like this, dangling from a tree, his hands bound above his head with too tight ropes and his toes not reaching the ground. It fucking hurts.

“You are so going to pay for this,” he tells Kate and is perfectly aware there is no real fire behind his words, since he is cold, in pain and scared, of course, who wouldn’t be scared in such a moment?

Kate smiles up at him. “Don’t worry, Stiles, it is all going to be over soon. We are just going to tickle you a bit, until your precious wolves come to rescue you, hopefully. If they care enough." She smirks.

Stiles scoffs. "You think they will walk into your trap? They are not that stupid.”

Kate laughs. “They are animals, Stiles! You of all people should know that. However, I am getting tired of hearing your voice. I rather want to hear you scream.” Suddenly, she has something in her hand, a stick, and when she holds it to Stiles’ side, it comes alive, sending electricity through his body. The pain is white and sharp and _hot._ Stiles shakes and his teeth clatter. He thinks he can hear himself screaming, but he is not sure. His own voice sounds like it comes from miles away. Finally, it stops and Stiles sags, breathing heavily and blinking tears away.

"You're alright up there, Stiles?" Kate asks brightly.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell Kate to go to hell, but then, he hears the roar. Everyone hears it. The forest shakes from its intensity. It is a roar so full of rage, it makes a shiver run over Stiles’ back down to his toes.

“Showtime,” Kate whispers.

Thomas behind her pales visibly, when there is a loud growl and Stiles thinks he pales too, because the next moment, Peter approaches, stepping out from between the trees, eyes glowing neon blue in the darkness - “Oh shit,” Stiles breathes, once again trying to reach the ground somehow. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Peter is shifted, but … not really. Not properly. He looks like a monster in a fairytale book. Like he tried to transform into a wolf but got stuck along the way. He is all fangs and claws, but his body still vaguely resembles a human, back arched and legs too long. His fur is completely black, his burn scars not visible under it. He growls again, the noise vibrating in the air.

Thomas takes several steps back. The hunters Stiles can see do too. Kate doesn’t back away at all. She stares at Peter with so much open hatred in her eyes, it seems like the air around her is dripping with venom. But behind all that hate, Stiles can still see a glimmer of surprise. Apparently, she didn't think Peter would come looking like _that_. However, the hate is way stronger. “That’s it,” she murmurs, gripping her weapon tighter. “Show them all what a fucking monster you are.”

The werewolf cowers like he is preparing to attack, still growling.

“Peter!” Stiles yells. “Peter, don’t! It’s a trap. Listen to me!”

The wolf glances into Stiles’ direction for a volatile moment. But he immediately focuses back on Kate, who yells, “Come on! Come and get me, mutt. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Stiles watches desperately as Peter roars at her, the fur at his neck bristling. He stands up, going on his hind legs until he all but towers over the humans. Thomas finally snaps. He walks backwards quickly, still holding his gun, but pointing it to the ground, his face white like paper.

Stiles momentarily feels sorry for him. Peter in this shape must remind Thomas too much of the feral wolf that attacked his family.

Stiles knows he can do nothing to prevent Peter from attacking Kate and getting shot, he can only watch. He watches as the werewolf lunges at the woman who burnt his family, roaring and eyes blazing.

And in the little moment before the whole world goes to hell around him, Stiles realises that Peter doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that it is a trap, or that he didn’t shift properly, or that Stiles is dangling from the tree. He doesn’t care. He just wants revenge. And maybe it is stupid, but for that moment, every single one of these thoughts _hurts_.

The world doesn’t care however. It does go to hell anyway.

There are a lot of shots and shouts and somewhere in between, Stiles suddenly falls, his ropes cut through. He lands on the ground with a pained grunt and looks up at … Derek, who crouches in front of him, his eyes red and full of rage. He is bleeding from a wound at his head.

“Let me guess,” Stiles says quietly, “Peter?” 

“Peter,” Derek confirms, baring his teeth a little. He looks up, growling at a nearby hunter who noticed them and raises his weapon. He doesn’t come far. Derek lunges at him. There is a row of noises that make Stiles feel uneasy. He looks away, trying to find Peter in this mess.

What he sees makes him feel sick to the stomach. Kate is still standing and she is not hurt at all, while Peter tries to drag his shifted body towards her, bleeding from multiple wounds and clearly struggling to keep himself upright at all.

Stiles gets up and runs. He ignores Derek’s call - the Alpha werewolf is fighting three hunters alone - and ignores someone trying to get a hold of him. He just snaps his elbow into the Someone’s face, barely hearing the following grunt. He runs and right when Kate points her weapon at Peter’s head, her smile gleeful, _victorious_ , Stiles jumps in front of the werewolf, raises his hands and yells, “No!”

Kate frowns, her smile falters a bit. “Seriously, Stiles? What are you doing? Do you really want to die for that worthless mutt? Look at him. He’s dead anyway," she hisses.

“You are not going to hurt anyone else,” Stiles says and feels kind of stupid. He doesn’t have a weapon. He is only human. He is in no position to make threats. And yet, here he is, playing human shield for a feral werewolf.

Kate sighs. “I thought you are smarter than that. But look at you, you are already brainwashed. It would have been better if my plan had worked out and that stupid center of yours would have burnt to the ground with every one who helps monsters in it! Now, everything is much more tedious. And dirtier,” she says coldly and raises her gun, pointing it at Stiles’ head. Stiles’ eyes are glued to the barrel. It is dark and he wonders briefly, if it is true that you hear the shot after the bullet hits you. Apparently, he is going to find out now.  
  
He winces violently when there is a shot, but the bullet doesn’t hit him. Instead, it pierces Kate’s hand. Kate screams in rage and disbelief. Stiles turns his head into the direction of the shot and his eyes widen. “Thomas!” he gasps.  
  
Thomas stands there, holding his gun with both hands, looking shocked yet determined.

“You idiot!” Kate screams, holding her bleeding hand. “There is a literal monster in front of you, plus a traitor, and you shoot _me_?!”

Thomas glares at her. “You tortured Stiles. Now you wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill everyone! I think he is right. You’re nothing but a killer. A liar. And you are enjoying it. I saw it in your eyes, when you watched that werewolf getting shot at. I ... This is not who I am. I won’t help you anymore.”

Kate snarls. She reaches for the gun. “Fine. I can shoot well enough with both hands!”

Stiles moves instinctively, picking the gun up himself and pointing it at Kate. The weapon feels foreign in his hands. Cold and heavy. It feels nothing like the tranquilizer gun. 

Kate looks surprised for a short moment, but then she laughs. “Really Stiles? Will you kill me? You?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. No, I won’t. But he will,” he says quietly, looking at Peter who growls and heaves his injured body up.

Kate pales. She presses her bleeding hand to her chest and shakes her head. “No, Stiles. You can’t do that. You can’t throw me to a monster like that!”  
  
“I only see one monster. And it’s human,” Stiles says. And steps aside.

Peter roars and pounces. Kate screams when she falls. She tries to shield her throat with both hands, but she isn’t strong enough. It doesn’t take long.

Stiles doesn’t look away. He watches every second. When it is over, Kate’s throat is nothing more than a red string, connecting her head to her body.

Most of the still standing hunters flee at the sight. Thomas remains, standing still and stunned, the gun shaking in his hand. He eventually throws it away, looking a bit disgusted, and turns away, staring at the nearby warehouse.

When Peter raises his head, his fangs are dripping with blood. He stares at Stiles and growls lowly. His eyes are still wild. There is a sharp glint of insanity in them. But underneath … There is also something hurt. Something vulnerable and tired.

Stiles swallows. God. He is tired too ... He lets his instincts take over. With a sigh, he goes to his knees and puts the gun away, reaching out with both hands. “It’s over, Peter,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not scared of you. Let me help.”

The werewolf stares at him for a moment, then he finally stumbles forward with a whine, leaning against Stiles and sinking down, breathing heavily. Stiles buries his fingers in black fur and doesn’t flinch back when he feels he is reaching into warm sticky blood.

Derek approaches them, looking battered but not really injured. He stares at them, his eyes wide.

Peter shifts back after a moment. It looks painful. When he is finally human again, he is breathing shallowly and Stiles freezes when black blood trickles from a corner of Peter’s mouth. Peter coughs, his body shaking in Stiles arms.

He looks up at Stiles and then at Derek, smiling weakly. “Sorry,” he croaks.

Derek shakes his head. “You are an idiot.”

Peter chuckles, but it changes into a cough and he grimaces.

“We have to call for help,” Stiles says worriedly. 

Peter gently shakes his head. “It’s alright. I never expected to survive this …”

Stiles’ breath hitches. He glares down at Peter. “No. You won’t just give up, you can’t, I …”

“Thank you, Stiles. Thank you for being kind and for … for caring. You … you made me feel more than the emptiness and rage that … that I fell into. Made me feel human. Thank you,” Peter murmurs, his eyes falling shut and his voice getting weaker with every syllable.

“No. No, no, no,” Stiles rambles, gripping Peter’s hand. It feels limb in his. “No!”

Peter doesn’t react anymore. He seems to have passed out. Stiles looks up at Derek with wide eyes, his heart pounding. “What do we do?!”

Derek looks down at his uncle, his face crestfallen. He shakes his head. “Nothing … There is nothing we can do," he breathes, his voice grave.

“Bullshit!” Stiles says sharply and Derek winces. He swallows and crouches beside Peter, reaching out to touch his forehead. He grimaces. “He is too hurt, Stiles. The wolfsbane … It is everywhere …”

Stiles thinks. It is hard, because adrenaline is rushing through his body and his ears are ringing. There has to be something, someone, some - Oh. “Help me,” he tells Derek, who looks like he’s lost in his own thoughts, his hand still on Peter’s forehead.

“Derek! Don’t mourn him before he is gone,” Stiles says, nudging Derek who perks up surprised. “Help me to get him into a car.”

Derek looks at him desperately, but he finally moves, scooping up Peter like he weighs nothing and carrying him to a car.

Stiles looks at Thomas, who watches them wide-eyed and uncertain. “Thank you,” Stiles tells him. “Thank you for doing the right thing.”

“Was it the right thing?” Thomas asks quietly. “Well, I hope so. I … I just couldn’t stand how she looked at you. How she … I’m not like her. I would never want to be like her, I …”

“It’s okay, Thomas. It’s alright. I understand,” Stiles tells him. He puts a hand on Thomas' shoulder. “Come with us. You can’t stay here. No one will hurt you and … maybe you can help some more. With the aftermath of this.”

Thomas hesitates, but then he nods, following Stiles to the car. 

* * *

Deaton looks surprised when he opens the door to Stiles, Thomas and two werewolves, one of them gravely injured. But he is fast like always, his calm mask slipping into place. He listens to Stiles' narration of the happenings as he assesses and treats Peter’s injuries.

Deaton is the best healer Stiles knows. The one who knows everything about the Supernatural world. If anyone can save Peter, it is Deaton.

Stiles waits anxiously, looking at his bloody hands numbly. Derek paces restlessly and Thomas sits in a corner, drinking water in little sips, looking shaken.  
  
When Deaton is done, he doesn’t sugarcoat it. He is curt and direct. Just like Stiles knows him. “He’s weak. The wolfsbane did a lot of damage. The night is going to be critical. You should be prepared to say goodbye.”

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

He goes up to wash his hands in the bathroom, every step exhausting him more. 

  
  


[Now]

  
  


Stiles doesn’t feel guilty about letting Peter kill Kate. Maybe he should. But he doesn’t. She would have caused so much hurt. She would have never stopped. Stiles once thought she should be in prison, but he thinks now, that the moment she made him look into the barrel of her gun made him realise, that Kate Argent was a threat that needed to be wiped out.

He sighs and looks at Peter’s still face while Deaton quietly talks to Thomas in a corner, and Derek is in the kitchen, preparing something to eat.

Stiles doesn’t feel like eating at all. His stomach revolts at the mere thought.

He looks up when Derek eventually approaches. “You know, you should be able to feel him,” the werewolf says, sitting down beside Stiles again.  
  
“What? How?” Stiles asks, surprised.

Derek looks at Peter and reaches out to take his pain again. “You share a bond. Peter felt it when you were in pain.”

“You mean … a packbond?” Stiles asks, a bit excited despite his exhaustion and worry. “But, I’m human. And I’m just the guy who helped him to shift back.”

Derek glances at him. “It doesn’t matter that you are human. The bond doesn’t care about what we are. It settles into place when the wolf decides it should. The wolf connected to you and now you are connected to Peter. Stiles … I think you are very important to him. You didn’t only help him to shift back. You gave him hope when he thought there was nothing left. You gave him the will to get stronger again. You reached him. You could reach him now as well, I’m sure.”

Stiles swallows. The thought of having such a connection to Peter feels nice. It warms him up from the inside. Suddenly, the spark of rage he felt after Kate slapped him, the spark that didn't feel like his own, makes much more sense. It was Peter, right? He felt Peter’s rage through that bond …

“Wow,” he says quietly. “That … it sounds great. I honestly had the impression that Peter only cared about Kate. About his revenge. I … I didn’t think I would be important to him.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, Stiles,” he says urgently. “No. He shifted after he felt you being in so much pain. He screamed when he felt it. He screamed your name. And … I tried to calm him down, but at that point, he couldn’t hold his wolf back anymore. He didn’t want to shift and be out of control, that’s why he looked like that. So … wrong. But it was you, Stiles. And Kate knew that. Peter felt so much because you were in danger and he wanted to find you. But the wolf took over as soon as he saw Kate, because he wanted to have her out of the way first. I know that Peter thought he wouldn’t survive his revenge and that he wasn’t scared of that fact, but … He wanted to know you’re safe, first. And I'm sure he knocked me out before he took off, because he didn't want me to be in danger, either. Somehow, for him, I'm still that nephew he is looking after. The pup he is protecting. Peter's problem is, that he cares too much,” Derek says, his eyes filling with a combination of fondness and pain.

Stiles is stunned. Derek never talked so much and what he said … It is amazing. He looks back at Peter and feels his chest aching. Now, he wants Peter to come back even more. He wants to talk to Peter about this. About the connection. About … everything. He wants to talk to Peter like he did back then, at the center.

Derek seems to feel his despair. “Try it, Stiles,” he says quietly. “Try to reach him.” He takes Stiles’ hand and lays it on Peter’s chest gently.

Stiles swallows. He closes his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

First, Stiles feels nothing. It is like he reaches into a void. 

But after a few breaths, there is a pulse of light. Something touches him. Not physically, but he can feel it. Something reaches out and touches him gently, like it is trying to feel if it is really him. 

_Stiles,_ the void whispers. 

Another pulse of light and Stiles starts to feel things. A hint of pain and sadness, regret and longing, hope and resignation. It is like his feelings are reflected and at the same time completed. 

_It is the bond_ , he thinks, more a statement than a question. _Our bond. You are still in there, Peter. Still holding on. Still fighting. Come back to us._

The last thought sounds like a plea in his mind. To Peter it does too, apparently. Because the next moment, Stiles hears the echo of a single word. 

_Tired._

Stiles is amazed that the bond is so strong, they can reach and hear each other on a mental level. He has never heard of such a thing. 

_I’m tired too_ , he sends back. _And I get you are exhausted. But I am here. Derek too. There are people who care about you and life can still be good. Don’t give up. Come back to us. To … to me._

 _Trying_ echoes in his mind and it makes him feel more hopeful. 

The bond feels more stable and Stiles thinks that’s a good sign. However, somehow he starts to feel terribly exhausted and like he loses his hold.   
  


_I think I have to let go now._

_It’s alright._

Stiles lets go. He opens his eyes and looks around, seeing Deaton and Derek both watching him attentively. Thomas is still sitting on the couch in the corner, clutching a blanket to his chest and sipping tea. Stiles takes a few deep breaths and rubs at his eyes, looking down at Peter, who is still passed out and pale. 

“Did you feel him?” Derek asks. 

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I … I think we talked. Kind of.” 

Deaton hums. “That’s great. Your bond is strong. It might lead him back.” 

Stiles looks back at Peter, leaving his hand on the werewolf’s gently rising and falling chest. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I really hope so.” 

* * *

Peter opens his eyes the next morning, blinking into the sunlight and groaning. 

Stiles perks up from where he slept slumped on a chair and calls for Deaton while simultaneously stumbling towards Peter, bending over him. “Hey. Welcome back,” he says, smiling, giving in to the relief flooding him.

The night has been tough. In the middle of it, Peter started to sweat and tremble, his body apparently fighting against leftover poison. Derek pulled pain and Stiles wiped the cold sweat away, desperately hoping Peter would win the fight. And apparently, he did. 

Peter blinks up at Stiles, his eyes getting clearer. “Stiles,” he croaks. “You called me.” 

“I did, I guess,” Stiles says, chuckling. 

“Tried to come back. Cause of you. And Derek,” Peter murmurs and his eyes fall shut again. 

Stiles swallows around the lump forming in his throat. He reaches out to take one of Peter’s hands in his, squeezing gently. “You did great. Really great.” 

Deaton arrives, checking Peter through and making him sit up to drink some herbal infused water. Stiles takes comfort in Deaton’s calmth and unhurried movements. The werewolf seems out of the woods now. They can all relax a bit. 

While Deaton and Stiles prepare a fast breakfast, Derek talks to Peter. Thomas left in the late evening, promising to stay in touch. Chris passes by when they lay the table and decides to join them. They all sit down, minus Peter because he is still too weak to get up and is sound asleep again anyway. 

Chris assures them no one would come after them and Stiles feels even more relieved. Especially, after Chris tells him no one will ask any questions about his involvement in all of this. 

“What about the bodies? Kate? And the center? Will we be in any trouble?” Derek asks. 

Chris shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I got rid of the bodies with some help and I have already prepared a believable story. And Thomas agreed to testify. He has proof that Kate is responsible for the fire and planned another one at the center. Which, in return, means that you and Peter will be compensated by the Argent’s matriarch - which,” he says, when Derek scoffs, “is not nearly enough of course, there can’t be anything compensating what you two have been through, but you can use the money, for either building a new pack house, or leaving this town and settle somewhere else.”

Stiles doesn’t really like the last suggestion. But of course, he would get it. He would get why Derek wouldn’t want to stay in Beacon Hills. And Peter too. Derek is his last remaining family and Alpha, so of course he is going to follow him. 

Still, something inside him hurts at the thought of never seeing them again. Especially now, that he has a bond with Peter. 

Derek looks unsure, stricken and much younger than a moment before. Stiles is once again reminded how young the Alpha werewolf actually is. How sudden the spark chose him. “I don’t know,” Derek says with resignation making his voice tremble. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“You can stay here for the time being, if you want,” Deaton chimes in. “Peter can recover from his injuries and you can think about what comes next, in safety.” 

Derek looks relieved. “Thank you.” 

Stiles is relieved too. The werewolves staying here for at least a while means he can come to see them. But of course, he has to return to his own apartment soon. Poor Godzilla must be so hungry and confused. With that thought in mind, Stiles hurries to eat up. 

* * *

Autumn comes and colors the forest. Orange, red and light brown. The leaves rain down on Stiles as he walks the familiar narrow path towards Deaton’s house. 

A wolf lies curled up in the front yard and Stiles knows immediately it is Peter. Derek’s wolf is a light chocolate brown instead of grey. The Alpha is shifted too sometimes, but today, he is in his human form, chopping wood beside the house. 

The wolf perks up when Stiles approaches and wags his tail, but doesn’t get up. Stiles knows Peter is currently trying to get back to a more stable, controlled shift and the balance he once had. But he also is still recovering from the injuries of both the fire and the fight with Kate and her hunters. At least, he has already gained more weight and muscle mass. 

Stiles smiles and crouches down to let the wolf scent him. Warm breath hits his neck and he rubs his own cheek against the wolf’s, chuckling when he receives a cold kiss on his jaw. After a moment of snuggling, he gets up and walks towards the porch, where Deaton is sitting on a bench, reading a book about healing herbs. He looks up when Stiles approaches and smiles. “Stiles. Did you apply?”

Stiles slumps on the bench and grins. “I did.” He didn’t even hesitate and now is really excited to start the studies. 

Deaton hums in approval. “I’m glad. You will be a great therapist for the Supernatural.” 

Stiles hopes so. 

Things look quite good right now. 

Thomas did testify and with his help they laid open all of Kate’s disgusting genocide plans. Stiles is almost disappointed that Kate wasn’t alive to see how the people called her. How the Argent matriarch herself condemned her actions sharply and promised an investigation. How her angry old father tried to talk on television and was shut up by the crowd. How he died only a week later, alone and bitter and aware the future belonged to peace. 

Yeah. Stiles is almost disappointed. But only almost. A darker part of him is still satisfied when he remembers her eyes shortly before Peter’s fangs closed around her throat. Her noise of rage and surprise as she realised it was over. 

Over it is. They are finally safe. 

Now, everyone focuses back on the balance. On peace. Sure, the hateful people don’t just vanish. They don’t shut up. They are loud. And there will always be those people who think they are superior and everything not human should be wiped out. But there are many more who stand up against them. And that’s what Stiles is trying to focus on. 

“He is okay, isn’t he?” Stiles asks Deaton, watching Peter snapping at a fly. 

“He is healing,” Deaton says. “Just like Derek. And you?” 

Stiles shrugs. “I’m getting there, I guess.” He has a lot of additional therapy sessions now, because he has to talk about being abducted and tortured. It is not easy to go through all that again and again, but after, he feels less heavy. He can do this.  
  
“Can I borrow some books?” Stiles asks Deaton. 

The vet nods. “Take what you need.” 

Stiles smiles and enters the house, walking right into Deaton’s extensive library. He loves the smell there. Old books and herbs. He loves to go through the thickest books and see the dust fly up when he opens another one. He almost loses himself in the books and doesn’t notice Peter walking in, now human, until he gently says, “Stiles.” 

Stiles jumps a little and gasps. “Jesus! You gave me a scare.” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says. He limps to an armchair and sits, watching as Stiles puts a book away and pulls out another one. “I wanted to thank you, Stiles.” 

Stiles looks at him curiously. “For what?” 

“For staying,” Peter says. “For staying even though someone wanted you to turn away and let it go. I don’t really know how you could do it. Or why.” 

Stiles smiles. He blushes a little, when he thinks of an answer and avoids Peter’s eyes. “Well, that’s easy to explain. You are important to me.” 

“I am?” Peter asks, blinking. 

“Sure. I liked talking to you. And I liked to see how you fought your way back into life. It made me fight more too. Life sucks a lot of times, but we are still here. Kicking. I like that.”  
  
Peter smiles. The right side of his mouth won’t really follow the movement, hindered by the scar tissue that replaced the burns. “I like it too,” he says quietly. 

They look at each other and Stiles is kind of transfixed by the blue of Peter’s eyes. He feels a pulse of longing. He felt it before, but he tries to shove it aside and focuses back on the books. He got used to the knowledge that he has a crush on Peter just like he had before the fire, but it will never be reciprocated. The bond is enough. It makes him happy. 

It’s enough. 

* * *

Time passes. 

Stiles studies. Derek and Peter heal at Deaton’s and go to therapy. Thomas is back working at the center. Chris Argent returned to his “normal” life. 

On a Sunday, Stiles is still in his pajama, trying to clean a very reluctant pan and cursing under his breath, when suddenly, the doorbell rings and makes him wince. 

He stares at the pan in his hand and then down his body, at his bare feet. Fuck. “Uh. I’m coming!” he yells, asking himself who the hell decided to visit him on a Sunday. Derek would have come through a window. And Deaton usually calls beforehand. 

Stiles hurries to put on a jacket and socks while walking, almost tripping over Godzilla, who runs towards the door curiously. Stiles opens a bit breathless and looks right into Peter’s blue eyes. “Uh,” Stiles makes and wants to slap himself. “Hi.” 

Peter smiles. His scars are a bit less pronounced by now, so it is a full on smile. “Stiles.”

Godzilla, who first came with his tail wagging to see who was there, does a double take and barks at Peter furiously. Stiles sighs and gently shoves the dog away with his foot. “Don’t be rude, Godzilla.” 

Peter only chuckles and flashes his eyes at the Chihuahua. Godzilla yelps and runs, disappearing in Stiles’ bedroom with his tail between his legs. 

Stiles laughs. “Do you want to come in?” he asks Peter and tries to forget the fact that he didn’t clean up. He didn’t even make his bed. Crap. It’s been too long since someone visited him at home. 

“Actually, I was on my way to town,” Peter says. “I have an appointment with my therapist. But I thought I would stop by to give you a little something, if you don’t mind.” He hands Stiles a bag. A bag from where a delicious scent comes towards Stiles. Something spicy, ginger and orange and cinnamon. 

Stiles takes the bag and peeks inside curiously, his breath catching. “Are those … Oh my God, is that gingerbread?!” he asks excitedly. 

Peter nods, watching Stiles closely. “Yes. I made them.” 

“Thanks, I love gingerbread!” Stiles inhales the scent greedily. 

Peter watches him with that same bright smile on his face. “I hope you will like them. Goodbye, Stiles.” He turns and walks down the stairs slowly.

Stiles watches after Peter, the scent of the gingerbread floating all around him. It smells like … Christmas. That actually makes him feel a little sad. Christmas has always been a tough time of the year for him. It’s filled with so many memories of his Dad. Of how they decorated the tree together and made biscuits. Usually, Stiles hides in his apartment that day and watches some mindless movies. He wonders, if this time, it will be different. Maybe, he will spend the day with Peter, Derek and Deaton. Thomas and Chris too, maybe. Maybe. 

He goes back into his apartment, clutching the bag with the gingerbread close to his chest. 

* * *

Just when Stiles has finished the gingerbread - he had to force himself to not eat all of them at once, because they were absolutely delicious - Peter appears again, handing him another bag, this time filled with a lot of expensive looking health products. 

He says he bought too much and Derek doesn’t use any of it, so Stiles can have them. If he wants. Stiles wants. 

There is a shampoo that smells heavenly. It makes Stiles spend so much time washing his hair, his fingers become wrinkly and he can’t see through the steam. 

Only two days later, Peter appears with a fuzzy sweater. “For you,” he says with a smile, handing it to Stiles. “It is supposed to get really cold now, so I thought you could use more warm clothing.” 

Stiles takes the sweater, his heart jumping in his chest. “I … Thank you,” he breathes. 

Peter’s smile widens, it makes his eyes - God. How are they so blue?! - sparkle. “You’re welcome. I hope you like it.” 

Like usually, he doesn’t come in. He just leaves again, humming some melody under his breath. 

Stiles sits on the bed and lets Godzilla jump on his lap, running the sweater through his fingers thoughtfully. It smells good. Peter has given him so many things lately. Amazing delicious comfort food, heavenly smelling products like the shampoo, this fuzzy sweater … It’s nice. Really nice. Feels like being taken care of, and … 

Oh. _Oh_! 

Stiles freezes. 

And because Stiles has been studying werewolf behavior for years now, he starts to get it. He gets it. He is a bit surprised he didn't notice sooner. What Peter is doing, it is too obvious to be anything else but ...

“Courting,” he tells the room. And Godzilla. “He’s courting me.” 

Stiles’ face heats up. He buries it in the sweater, chasing that scent of orange and pine it carries. Peter. Peter is courting him. _Him_. He doesn’t know how to deal with that information. He’s … Well. He’s just Stiles. He’s nothing special. And Peter? Peter is smart, beautiful and a werewolf. He is the definition of special. 

Stiles sighs. He runs his fingers over the sweater and finally puts it on. He loves the feeling of the fabric on his skin. It warms him completely. 

He quickly recalls what he knows about courting rituals. It is a bit strange it is happening now, because it is winter, not spring. But maybe, the whole thing is not depending on seasons as much as some internet resources say. Stiles knows werewolves don’t really care about if they are courting a werewolf, other supernatural beings or a human. The courting follows rules. And now it makes perfect sense that Peter didn’t once ask to come into the apartment. He just brought his gifts, saw Stiles accepting them and left. 

Stiles was playing along perfectly the whole time, without even knowing. His heart starts to beat faster and he feels even warmer now. Peter has provided food, health and warmth. He will continue to do so until Stiles either courts him back with gifts or rejects one of Peter’s gifts. 

Stiles clutches the sweater and takes a deep breath. Something inside him desperately wants to panic while another part wants to revel in the fact that Peter is actually interested. Something tries to tell him he is going to fuck this up. He is not relationship material. He is definitely not good enough for someone like Peter. He is just a damaged idiot who tries to survive and manage life day by day. 

And yet … Peter has chosen to court him. He could have courted anyone else. But he chose Stiles. 

Stiles decides to get some sleep and think about this later. Right now, he is too overwhelmed. So he lies down, nose buried in the sweater and closes his eyes. 

* * *

When Stiles approaches the Hale house, clutching a bag, Derek is standing in front of it with a pen and a notepad, frowning.

Stiles is a bit surprised Derek decided to rebuild the house and Peter agreed to it, but then … It is their home and they are going to build something good out of the ashes. Somehow it is a damn great screw you towards the Argents and any other hater that the Hales are staying on their land, so Stiles admires it. That they use the Argent's compensation money for the project makes it even better.

“Hey,” he greets Derek, who just grunts without looking up from his notes and sketches. “Have you seen Peter?” 

“He went for a walk, but he should come back every minute,” Derek says. Now, he does look up, eyeing Stiles up and down. “Why do you smell like that?” the werewolf asks, his nostrils flaring. 

“What? How? What do you … uh,” Stiles stammers, then he tries to save the situation by asking, “I’m not smelling like old socks or something, right? I took a shower this morning.” 

Derek shakes his head. “No. You smell like … longing. And anticipation.” 

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it again, aware he looks like a goldfish. Before he can say anything though, Peter steps out from between the trees, looking between them curiously. “Hey, Stiles. Did Derek blackmail you into helping too?” he asks, grinning. 

Derek frowns. “I didn’t blackmail you into anything,” he grumbles. 

Peter just pats his nephew's back, his eyes still glued to Stiles and flickering to the bag in his hands. Stiles takes a deep breath. “I, uh, I’ve brought you something,” he says, quickly handing Peter the bag, before he can get cold feet. 

Peter’s eyes widen. He takes the bag and looks inside, his breath catching just like Stiles’ did back then. His expression softens. “Thank you, Stiles,” he says, pulling out the box of chocolate. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not a great cook or baker, so … so I bought these,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. His face is burning and he knows he is blushing furiously. "I hope they are alright." 

Peter smiles. "More than alright."

Derek watches their exchange, looking confused at first, but soon, realization fills his eyes. He doesn’t say anything though. He just looks from Stiles to Peter and back for a moment, before he slowly walks away, scribbling something on his pad, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Stiles guesses Derek now knows why he smelled like that. He watches as Peter runs his fingers over the box and puts it back into the bag carefully. Since he is not handing it back, Stiles figures it counts as accepted. His heart seems to jump loops in his chest. 

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Peter asks him, tilting his head. 

Stiles nods. “Yeah. Sure I did. I just don’t … Why me?”

Peter looks surprised. “Why you? Why … Stiles, it couldn’t be anybody else. You are special. You were there when I lost myself and you brought me back. More than one time. You made me feel things I thought I would never feel again. You bonded with my wolf although he was living on nothing but rage. You … you made me see that I still have things to live for. Things to fight for. Will you let me fight for you, Stiles? Protect you?” 

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. Peter looks so hopeful. Hopeful and more vulnerable than Stiles has ever seen him. He nods. “Of course. Of course I will let you. And … will you let me be there for you?” 

“Yes,” Peter says softly. “Oh yes.” 

Stiles wants to laugh and cry at the same time. But in the end, he just takes a step forward and finds himself in Peter’s arms, kissing him like he is trying to lay every single one of his emotions into his lips, into the connection between them. Peter kisses him back just as urgently. 

Stiles brings his hand up to cup Peter’s face, feeling scar tissue and softer skin, reminded that they both wear scars on the inside and outside, but they will be fine, because they don’t walk alone anymore. 

Never again. 

_[The End]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap :)  
> Thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos!  
> I really enjoyed writing this story and I hope you enjoyed reading it <3


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